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The  Love  Sonnets  of  Proteus     • 


THE  LARK  CLASSICS 


The  Love  Sonnets  of 
Proteus 

BY 

Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt 


Doxey's 

AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    LARK 
NEW    YORK 


UNIVERSITY   PRESS    •     JOHN  WILSON 
AND    SON     .      CAMBRIDGE,     U.S.A. 


Preface  to  Fourth  Edition 

No  life  is  perfect  that  has  not  been  lived,  —  youth  in 
feeling,  —  manhood  in  battle,  —  old  age  in  meditation. 

Again,  no  life  is  perfect  that  is  not  sincere. 

For  these  two  reasons  I  have  decided  to  add  my  name 
to  the  title-page  of  this  the  Fourth  Edition  of  the  Sonnets 
of  Proteus. 

VV.  S.  B. 

Crabbet  Park,  Sussex 
March  i^th,  1885 


2057152 


Preface 

The  author  of  these  sonnets,  styhng  himself  Proteus, 
acknowledges  thereby  a  natural  mood  of  change.  He  here 
lays  bare  what  was  once  his  heart,  to  the  public,  but  what 
for  good  or  evil  is  his  heart  no  longer,  thus  closing  for  ever 
his  account  with  youth.  He  stands  upon  the  threshold  of 
middle  life,  and  already  his  dreams  are  changed.  The  gods 
of  his  youth  have  ceased  to  be  his  gods.  Yet,  while  looking 
back  upon  the  feelings  here  portrayed  as  things  now  foreign 
to  his  life,  and  recognizing  the  many  errors  and  exaggera- 
tions of  his  youth,  he  finds  it  impossible  wholly  to  regret 
the  past,  knowing  that  those  only  are  beyond  all  hope  of 
wisdom  who  have  never  dared  to  be  fools. 

August  i^th,  1880 


Contents 

Page 
Preface     v 

Dedication.    To  one  in  a  high  position xiii 


Part  I.    MANON 

To  Manon,  comparing  her  to  a  Falcon 3 

To  the  Same,  on  his  Fortune  in  loving  Her 4 

To  the  Same,  in  Praise  of  his  Fate 5 

To  the  Same,  on  the  Power  of  her  Beauty 6 

To  the  Same,  depreciating  her  Beauty 7 

To  the  Same,  on  her  Vanity 8 

To  the  Same,  as  to  his  Choice  of  Her 9 

To  the  Same,  on  her  Waywardness 10 

To  the  Same,  on  her  Forgiveness  of  a  Wrong 11 

To  the  Same,  on  her  Lightheartedness 12 

He  has  fallen  from  the  Height  of  his  Love 13 

To  his  Friend,  complaining  that  he  had  fallen  among  Thieves     .  14 

He  argues  with  his  Life 15 

Joy's  Treachery 16 

He  laments  that  his  Love  is  dead 17 

He  protests,  notwithstanding,  his  Love 18 

On  falling  ill  through  Grief 19 

ix 


Contents 

Part  IL    JULIET. 

Page 

To  Juliet,  on  the  Nature  of  Love 23 

To  Juliet,  asking  for  her  Heart 24 

The  Same,  continued 25 

To  Juliet,  asking  the  Fulfilment  of  her  Love 26 

To  Juliet,  in  Answer  to  a  Question 27 

To  the  Same,  who  would  Comfort  Him 28 

The  Religion  of  Love 29 

To  One  who  Loved  Him 30 

To  the  Same,  exhorting  Her  to  Patience 31 

To  Juliet,  reminding  Her  of  a  Promise 32 

The  Same,  continued 33 

The  Same,  continued 34 

To  JuUet,  Fear  has  cast  out  Love 35 

To  One  who  would  "  Remain  Friends" 36 

To  One  now  Estranged 37 

Farewell  to  Juliet 38 

The  Same,  continued 39 

The  Same,  continued 40 

The  Same,  continued 41 

The  Same,  continued 42 

The  Same,  continued 43 

The  Same,  continued 44 

The  Same,  continued 45 

The  Same,  continued 46 

The  Same,  continued 47 

The  Same,  continued 48 

The  Same,  continued 49 

The  Same,  continued 50 

The  Same,  continued 51 

The  Same,  continued 52 

X 


Contents 

Part  III.    GODS  AND   FALSE  GODS. 

Page 

He  desires  the  Impossible 55 

St.  Valentine's  Day 56 

To  One  whom  he  dared  not  Love 57 

On  a  Lost  Opportunity 58 

To  One  on  her  Waste  of  Time 59 

The  Haunted  House 60 

The  Triumph  of  Love 61 

To  One  Excusing  his  Poverty 62 

To  One  who  would  make  a  Confession 63 

The  Pleasures  of  Love 64 

He  Appeals  against  his  Pond 65 

To  One  who  spoke  ill  of  Him 66 

The  Three  Ages  of  Woman 67 

The  Same,  continued 6S 

The  Same,  continued 69 

Sibylline  Books 70 

On  Reading  the  Memoirs  of  M.  D'Artagnan 71 

The  Tv.'o  Highwaymen 72 

From  the  French  of  Anvers 73 

To  One  to  whom  he  had  been  Unjust 74 

The  Mockery  of  Life,  a  Triple  Sonnet 75 

The  Same,  continued 76 

The  Same,  continued 77 

Who  would  Live  again  ? 78 

Cold  Comfort 79 

Amour  Oblige 80 

To  One  Unforgotten 81 

To  One  w^hom  he  had  Loved  too  Long 82 

He  would  lead  a  better  Life 83 

xi 


Contents 

Part  IV.     VITA   NOVA. 

Page 

A  Day  in  Sussex 87 

In  Anniversario  Mortis 88 

The  Same,  continued 89 

The  Same,  continued 90 

The  Same,  continued 91 

The  Limit  of  Human  Knowledge 92 

The  Pride  of  Unbelief 93 

Laughter  and  Death 94 

Written  in  Distress 95 

A  Disappointment 96 

A  Year  Ago 97 

He  is  not  a  Poet 98 

On  the  Shortness  of  Time 99 

Chanclebury  Ring 100 

Sonnet  in  Assonance , loi 

Youth 102 

Age 103 

The  Same,  continued 104 

The  Venus  of  Milo 105 

Written  at  Florence 106 

The  Same,  continued 107 

Palazzo  Pagani 108 

The  Sublime 109 

The  Same,  continued no 

A  Forest  in  Bosnia in 

Roumeli  Hissar,  a  Sonnet 112 

The  Oasis  of  Sidi  Khaled 113 

To  the  Bedouin  Arabs 114 

Gibraltar 115 

xii 


DEDICATION 

TO    ONE    IN    A    HIGH    POSITION 

TO  you,  a  poet,  glorious,  heaven-born, 
One  who  is  not  a  poet  but  a  son 
Of  the  earth  earthy,  sick  and  travel-worn 
And  weary  with  a  race  already  run, 
A  battle  lost  e'er  yet  his  day  is  done. 
Comes  with  this  tribute,  shattered  banners  torn 
From  a  defeat.     You  reign  in  Macedon, 
My  Alexander,  as  at  earlier  morn 
You  reigned  upon  Parnassus,  hero,  king. 
I  reign  no  more,  not  even  in  those  hearts 
For  which  these  songs  were  made,  and  if  I  sing 
'Tis  with  a  harsh  and  melancholy  note 
At  which  my  own  heart  like  an  echo  starts. 
Yet  sometimes  I  can  deem  you  listening, 
And  then  all  else  is  instantly  forgot. 


PART    I 
MANON 


TO   MANON 

COMPARING   HER   TO   A    FALCON 

BRAVE  as  a  falcon  and  as  merciless, 
With  bright  eyes  watching  still  the  world,  thy 
prey, 
I  saw  thee  pass  in  thy  lone  majesty, 
Untamed,  unmated,  high  above  the  press. 
The  dull  crowd  gazed  at  thee.     It  could  not  guess 
The  secret  of  thy  proud  aerial  way. 
Or  read  in  thy  mute  face  the  soul  which  lay 
A  prisoner  there  in  chains  of  tenderness. 
—  Lo,  thou  art  captured.     In  my  hand  to-day 
I  hold  thee,  and  awhile  thou  deignest  to  be 
Pleased  with  my  jesses.     I  would  fain  beguile 
My  foolish  heart  to  think  thou  lovest  me.     See, 
I  dare  not  love  thee  quite.     A  little  while 
And  thou  shalt  sail  back  heavenwards.     Woe  is  me ! 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   THE    SAME 

ON    HIS    FORTUNE    IN    LOVING    HER 

1DID  not  choose  thee,  dearest.     It  was  Love 
That  made  the  choice,  not  I.    Mine  eyes  were  blind 
As  a  rude  shepherd's  who  to  some  lone  grove 
His  offering  brings  and  cares  not  at  what  shrine 
He  bends  his  knee.     The  gifts  alone  were  mine; 
The  rest  was  Love's.     He  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  fired  the  sacrifice,  and  poured  the  wine. 
And  spoke  the  words  I  might  not  understand. 
I  was  unwise  in  all  but  the  dear  chance 
Which  was  my  fortune,  and  the  blind  desire 
Which  led  my  foolish  steps  to  love's  abode. 
And  youth's  sublime  unreasoned  prescience 
Which  raised  an  altar  and  inscribed  in  fire 
Its  dedication  **  to  the  unknown  god." 


of  Proteus 
TO   THE   SAME 

IN    PRAISE    OF    HIS    FATE 

WHEN  I  hear  others  speak  of  this  and  that 
In  our  fools'  lives  which  might  have  better  gone, 
Complaining  idly  of  too  niggard  fate 
And  wishing  still  their  senseless  past  undone, 
I  feel  a  childish  tremor  through  me  run. 
Stronger  than  reason,  lest  by  some  far  chance 
Fate's  ear  to  our  sad  plaints  should  yet  be  won 
And  these  our  lives  be  thrown  back  on  our  hands. 
I  tremble  when  I  think  of  my  past  years, 
My  hopes,  my  aims,  my  wishes.     All  these  days 
I  might  have  wandered  far  from  love  and  thee. 
But  kind  fate  held  me,  heedless  of  my  prayers, 
A  prisoner  to  its  wise  mysterious  ways, 
And  forced  me  to  thy  feet  —  ah  fortunate  me  ! 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   THE   SAME 

ON    THE    POWER    OF    HER    BEAUTY 

I  AM  lighthearted  now.     An  hour  ago 
There  was  a  tempest  in  my  heaven,  a  flame 
Of  sullen  lightning  under  a  bent  brow 
And  a  dull  muttering  which  breathed  no  name. 
Now  all  is  changed.     The  very  winds  are  tame, 
And  the  birds  sing  aloud  from  every  bough, 
And  my  heart  leaps.     What  empire  dost  thou  claim, 
Child,  o'er  this  earth,  that  nature  serves  thee  so  ? 
Sublime  magician  !     Well  may  earth  and  heaven 
Change  at  thy  bidding,  and  the  hearts  of  men. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  power  that  beauty  hath. 
The  sea  should  leave  his  bed,  the  rocks  be  riven. 
And  wise  men,  deeming  chaos  come  again, 
Should  kneel  before  thee  and  conjure  thy  wrath. 


of  Proteus 
TO   THE   SAME 

DEPRECIATING   HER   BEAUTY 

I  LOVE  not  thy  perfections.     When  I  hear 
Thy  beauty  blazoned,  and  the  common  tongue 
Cheapening  with  vulgar  praise  a  lip,  an  ear, 
A  cheek  that  I  have  prayed  to ';  —  when  among 
The  loud  world's  gods  my  god  is  noised  and  sung, 
Her  wit  applauded,  even  her  taste,  her  dress, 
Her  each  dear  hidden  marvel  lightly  flung 
At  the  world's  feet  and  stripped  to  nakedness  — 
Then  I  despise  thy  beauty  utterly, 
Crying,  "  Be  these  your  gods,  O  Israel !  " 
And  I  remember  that  on  such  a  day 
I  found  thee  with  eyes  bleared  and  cheeks  all  pale. 
And  lips  that  trembled  to  a  voiceless  cry, 
And  that  thy  bosom  in  my  bosom  lay. 


w 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   THE   SAME 

ON    HER   VANITY 

HAT  are  these  things  thou  lovest  ?     Vanity. 
To  see  men  turn  their  heads  when  thou  dost 


pass; 
To  be  the  signboard  and  the  looking  glass 
Where  every  idler  there  may  glut  his  eye; 
To  hear  men  speak  thy  name  mysteriously, 
Wagging  their  heads.     Is  it  for  this,  alas, 
That  thou  hast  made  a  placard  of  a  face 
On  which  the  tears  of  love  were  hardly  dry  ? 
What  are  these  things  thou  lovest  ?     The  applause 
Of  prostitutes  at  wit  which  is  not  thine; 
The  sympathy  of  shop-boys  who  would  weep 
Their  shilling's  worth  of  woe  in  any  cause, 
At  any  tragedy.  — Their  tears  and  mine, 
What  difference  ?     Oh  truly  tears  are  cheap  ! 


8 


of  Proteus 
TO   THE   SAME 

AS    TO    HIS    CHOICE    OF    HER 

IF  I  had  chosen  thee,  thou  shouldst  have  been 
A  virgin  proud,  untamed,  immaculate, 
Chaste  as  the  morning  star,  a  saint,  a  queen, 
Scarred  by  no  wars,  no  violence  of  hate. 
Thou  shouldst  have  been  of  soul  commensurate 
With  thy  fair  body,  brave  and  virtuous 
And  kind  and  just;  and,  if  of  poor  estate. 
At  least  an  honest  woman  for  my  house. 
I  would  have  had  thee  come  of  honoured  blood 
And  honourable  nurture.     Thou  shouldst  bear 
Sons  to  my  pride  and  daughters  to  my  heart. 
And  men  should  hold  thee  happy,  wise,  and  good, 
Lo,  thou  art  none  of  this,  but  only  fair. 
Yet  must  I  love  thee,  dear,  and  as  thou  art. 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   THE   SAME 

ON    HER   WAYWARDNESS 

THIS  is  rank  slavery.     It  better  were 
To  till  the  thankless  earth  with  sweat  of  brow, 
Following  dull  oxen  'neath  a  goad  of  care 
To  a  boor's  grave  agape  behind  the  plough. 
It  better  were  to  linger  in  some  slow 
Unnatural  case,  the  sport  of  flood  or  fire. 
To  be  undone  by  some  inhuman  vow 
And  robbed  in  youth  of  youth  and  its  desire. 
It  better  were  to  perish  than  thus  live 
Thy  pensioner  and  bondsman,  day  by  day 
Doing  fool's  service  thus  for  love  of  thee. 
How  shall  I  save  thee  if  thou  wilt  not  grieve 
Even  for  shames  like  these  ^     How  shall  I  slay 
The  foes  thou  lovest,  thou,  their  enemy? 


10 


of  Proteus 


TO   THE   SAME 

ON    HER   FORGIVENESS    OF    A    WRONG 

THIS  is  not  virtue.     To  forgive  were  great 
If  love  were  in  the  issue  and  not  gold. 
But  wrongs  there  are  't  is  treason  to  forget, 
And  to  forgive  before  the  deed  was  cold 
Was  a  strange  jest.     Ah,  Manon,  you  have  sold 
The  keys  of  heaven  at  a  vulgar  rate, 
A  sum  of  money  for  the  wealth  untold 
Of  a  just  anger  and  the  right  to  hate. 
—  Well.     It  is  done  and  the  price  paid.     Now  make 
Haste  to  betray  them  as  you  me  betrayed. 
These  are  no  longer  foes  to  be  forgiven. 
Remember  they  are  friends,  that  peace  is  made, 
That  you  are  theirs — Then  rend  them  for  love's  sake. 
And  let  your  hatred  with  your  love  be  even. 


II 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO  THE   SAME 

ON    HER   LIGHTHEARTEDNESS 

I  WOULD  I  had  thy  courage,  dear,  to  face 
This  bankruptcy  of  love,  and  greet  despair 
With  smiHng  eyes  and  unconcerned  embrace, 
And  these  few  words  of  banter  at  *'  dull  care." 
I  would  that  I  could  sing  and  comb  my  hair 
Like  thee  the  morning  thro*,  and  choose  my  dress. 
And  gravely  argue  what  I  best  should  wear, 
A  shade  of  ribbon  or  a  fold  of  lace. 
I  would  I  had  thy  courage  and  thy  peace, 
Peace  passing  understanding;  that  mine  eyes 
Could  find  forgetfulness  like  thine  in  sleep ; 
That  all  the  past  for  me  like  thee  could  cease 
And  leave  me  cheerfully,  sublimely  wise, 
Like  David  with  washed  face  who  ceased  to  weep. 


12 


of  Proteus 

HE    HAS    FALLEN   FROM    THE    HEIGHT 
OF   HIS   LOVE 

LOVE,  how  ignobly  hast  thou  met  thy  doom  ! 
Ill-seasoned  scaffolding  by  which,  full-fraught 
With  passionate  youth  and  mighty  hopes,  we  clomb 
To  our  heart's  heaven,  fearing,  doubting,  naught ! 
Oh  love,  thou  wert  too  frail  for  such  mad  sport, 
Too  rotten  at  thy  core,  designed  too  high  : 
And  we  who  trusted  thee  our  death  have  bought, 
And  bleeding  on  the  ground  must  surely  die. 
—  I  will  not  see  her.     What  she  now  may  be 
I  care  not.     For  the  dream  within  my  brain 
Is  fairer,  nobler,  and  more  kind  than  she  — 
And  with  that  vision  I  can  mock  at  pain. 
God  !     Was  there  ever  woman  half  so  sweet, 
Or  death  so  bitter,  or  at  such  dear  feet  ? 


13 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   HIS  FRIEND 

COMPLAINING   THAT    HE    HAD    FALLEN    AMONG  THIEVES 

OH,  L ,  I  have  gambled  with  my  soul, 
And,  like  a  spendthrift,  pawned  my  heritage 
To  pitiless  Jews,  and  paid  a  monstrous  toll 
To  knaves  and  usurers,  —  and  all  to  wage 
Fair  war  with  black-legs,  men  who  dared  to  gauge 
My  youth's  bright  honour  as  an  antique  thing, 
A  broadsword  to  their  fencing  point  and  edge. 
So  the  game  went.     And  even  yet  I  cling 
To  my  mad  humour,  reckoning  up  each  stake. 
Each  fair  coin  lost.  —  O  miserable  slaves. 
Who  for  the  sake  of  gold,  the  poorest  thing 
Man  ever  won  from  the  earth's  bosom,  take 
To  rope  or  poison,  and  who  labour  not 
Even  to  "  dig  dishonourable  graves," 
See  one  who  has  lost  a  pound  for  every  groat, 
For  every  penny  of  your  squandering  ! 

14 


of  Proteus 


HE  ARGUES   WITH   HIS   LIFE 

MY  life,  what  strange  mad  garments  hast  thou  on, 
Now  that  I  see  thee  truly  and  am  wise, 
Thou  wild,  lost  Proteus,  strangling  and  undone ! 
What  shapes  are  these,  what  metamorphoses 
Of  a  god's  soul  in  pain  ?  I  hear  thy  cries 
And  see  thee  writhe  and  take  fantastic  forms, 
And  strike  in  blindness  at  the  destinies 
And  at  thyself,  and  at  thy  brother  worms. 
Ah,  fooUsh  worm,  thou  canst  not  change  thy  lot. 
And  all  like  thee  must  perish  'neath  the  sun. 
Why  struggle  with  thy  fellows  ?     Nay,  be  kind. 
Kinder  than  these.     Behold,  the  flower-pot 
Of  fate  is  emptied  out,  and  one  by  one 
The  fisher  takes  you,  and  his  hooks  are  blind. 


15 


The  Love  Sonnets 


JOY'S  TREACHERY 

1HAD  a  live  joy  once  and  pampered  her, 
For  I  had  brought  her  from  the  "golden  East," 
To  lie  when  nights  were  cold  upon  my  breast 
And  sit  beside  me  the  long  days  and  purr, 
Until  her  whole  soul  should  be  lapped  in  fur. 
Deep  as  her  claws  ;  a  beautiful  sleek  beast, 
Which  I  might  love.  — But,  when  I  deemed  it  least, 
Her  topaz  eyes  were  on  my  stomacher, 
Athirst  for  blood.     Thus,  for  I  loathed  her  since 
I  learned  her  guile,  one  night  I  had  her  slain 
And  thrown  upon  a  dunghill  to  the  flies, 
Who  bred  in  her  fair  limbs  a  pestilence. 
Whereof  I  sickened.  —  Thus  it  ever  is  : 
Dead  joys  unburied  breed  us  death  and  pain. 


of  Proteus 


HE   LAMENTS   THAT   HIS   LOVE   IS   DEAD 

MY  love  is  dead,  dead  and  in  spite  of  me,  — 
Dead  while  I  lived, —  while  yet  my  blood  was  rife 
With  hope  and  pleasure  and  the  pride  of  life. 
For  my  love  ended  unexpectedly 
During  the  winter,  stricken  like  a  tree 
By  a  night's  cold,  and  frozen  to  the  blood, 
Whose  leaves  fell  off  and  never  were  renewed 
By  any  promise  of  the  years  to  be. 
And,  when  the  spring  came,  and  the  birds,  —  to  mate 
Among  its  branches,  lo !  they  found  it  bare. 
Though  all  around  was  summer  in  the  wood. 
Yet  they  took  heart  awhile,  incredulous 
That  such  a  tree  should  be  for  ever  dead. 
"'Tis  early  yet,"  they  cried.     "  The  spring  is  late. 
It  shall  still  be  as  in  the  days  that  were." 
But  summer  came  and  went  while  the  tree  stood 
Bare  in  the  sun  like  a  deserted  house. 
—  Then  the  birds  suddenly  despaired  and  fled. 

2  17 


The  Love  Sonnets 

HE  PROTESTS,   NOTWITHSTANDING, 
HIS   LOVE 

TO  be  cast  forth  from  the  fair  light  of  heaven 
Into  the  outer  darkness  and  there  lie, 
Through  unrecorded  years  of  agony, 
Unseen,  unheard,  unpitied,  unforgiven  ; 
To  be  forgotten  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Forgotten  of  the  womb  that  once  did  bear, 
The  eyes  that  cheered,  the  voice  that  comforted. 
The  very  breast  where  love  had  laid  his  head ; 
To  be  alone  with  darkness  and  despair, 
Alone  with  endless  death,  and  not  to  die; 
All  these  be  punishments  within  the  hand 
Of  an  avenging  deity  to  deal. 
To  these  I  bow  in  weakness  as  behoves. 
Yet  not  in  anger  but  in  love  I  stand 
'Gainst  heaven,  a  new  Prometheus,  and  appeal 
From  God  to  my  own  soul  which  ceaseless  loves. 
His  be  the  wrath,  the  burning  and  the  rod. 
Hell  shall  not  make  me  traitor  to  my  God. 
i8 


of  Proteus 


ON   FALLING   ILL  THROUGH   GRIEF 

TRUCE  to  thee,  Soul,  I  have  a  debt  to  pay, 
Which  I  acknowledge  and  without  thy  pleading. 
I  like  the  little  that  thou  barrest  my  way 
With  prayers  too  late  for  one  well  past  thy  heeding. 
Truce  to  these  tears !     Thy  fellow  lieth  bleeding, 
Wounded  by  thee ;  and  thou,  forsooth,  dost  say, 
''  I  have  a  servant  who  is  sick  and  needing 
Care  at  men's  hands."     The  care  was  thine  to  pay. 
—  When  this  same  Soul  was  sick,  a  while  ago. 
The  Body  watched  her,  till  his  eyes  grew  dim 
And  his  cheeks  pale  for  very  sympathy, 
Because  she  grieved.    His  love  has  wrought  him  woe. 
For  he  is  sick  and  she  despiseth  him. 
Poor  Body,  I  must  take  some  thought  of  thee. 


19 


PART   II 
JULIET 


TO  JULIET 

ON    THE    NATURE    OF    LOVE 

YOU  ask  my  love.    What  shall  my  love  then  be  ? 
A  hope,  an  aspiration,  a  desire  ? 
The  soul's  eternal  charter  writ  in  fire 
Upon  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and  the  sea  ? 
You  ask  my  love.     The  carnal  mystery 
Of  a  soft  hand,  of  finger-tips  that  press, 
Of  eyes  that  kindle  and  of  lips  that  kiss, 
Of  sweet  things  known  to  thee  and  only  thee  ? 
You  ask  my  love.     What  love  can  be  more  sweet 
Than  hope  or  pleasure  ?     Yet  we  love  in  vain. 
The  soul  is  more  than  joy,  the  life  than  meat. 
The  sweetest  love  of  all  were  love  in  pain. 
And  that  I  will  not  give.     So  let  it  be. 
—  Nay,  give  me  any  love,  so  it  be  love  of  thee. 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO  JULIET 

ASKING   FOR   HER    HEART 

I 

GIVE  me  thy  heart,  Juliet,  give  me  thy  heart! 
I  have  a  need  of  it,  an  absolute  need, 
Because  my  own  heart  has  thus  long  been  dead. 
I  live  but  by  thy  life.     The  very  smart 
Of  this  new  pain  which  has  been  born  of  thee 
Is  thine,  thy  own  great  pleasure's  counterpart. 
I  stand  before  thee  naked.     Clothe  thou  me. 
Bring  out  a  robe,  —  thy  truth,  thy  chastity. 
Put  rings  upon  my  fingers,  —  honour's  meed. 
For  thou  canst  give,  nor  ever  reck  the  cost, 
Being  the  royal  creature  that  thou  art, 
The  fountain  of  all  honour,  whose  high  boast 
Is  to  be  greatest  when  thou  givest  most. 


24 


of  Proteus 

THE  SAME 

{Continued) 

II 

GIVE  me  thy  soul,  Juliet,  give  me  thy  soul ! 
I  am  a  bitter  sea,  which  drinketh  in 
The  sweetness  of  all  waters,  and  so  thine. 
Thou,  like  a  river,  pure  and  swift  and  full 
And  freighted  with  the  wealth  of  many  lands, 
With  hopes,  and  fears,  and  death  and  life,  dost  roll 
Against  the  troubled  ocean  of  my  sin. 
Thou  doubtest  not,  though  on  these  desert  sands 
The  billows  surge  against  thee  black  with  brine, 
Unwearied.     For  thy  love  is  fixed  and  even 
And  bears  thee  onward,  and  thy  faith  is  whole. 
Though  thou  thyself  shouldst  sin,  yet  surely  heaven 
Hath  held  thee  guiltless  and  thou  art  forgiven. 


25 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO  JULIET 

ASKING  THE  FULFILMENT  OF  HER  LOVE 

I  ASK  for  love  who  famished  am  in  plenty, 
Not  scorning  the  dear  manna  of  your  tears 
But  being  vexed  with  that  too  froward  twenty 
Which  heads  the  sum  of  my  rebellious  years. 
My  soul  is  fallen  "  in  lust  of  cucumbers, 
Of  fish,  of  melons,"  through  its  long  abstaining. 
Unworthy  Egypt  yet  enslaves  my  fears. 
Ah,  love,  I  thirst,  but  not  for  heaven's  raining. 
Why  speak  to  me,  alas,  of  heavenly  joys 
Who  ask  for  joys  of  earth  these  cannot  cheat  ? 
What  are  these  clouds,  these  pillars  of  fire  to  me? 
The  wilderness  is  long.     Youth  cannot  be 
For  ever  fed  on  these  unnatural  toys 
And  needs  must  murmur  if  it  have  not  meat. 


26 


of  Proteus 
TO  JULIET 

IN    ANSWER   TO    A    QUESTION 

WHY  should  I  hate  you,  love,  or  why  despise 
For  that  last  proof  of  tenderness  you  gave? 
The  battle  is  not  always  to  the  brave. 
Nor  life's  sublimest  wisdom  to  the  wise. 
True  courage  often  is  in  frightened  eyes, 
And  reason  in  sweet  lips  that  only  rave. 
There  is  a  weakness  stronger  than  the  grave, 
And  blood  poured  out  has  overcome  the  skies 
—  Nay,  love,  I  honour  you  the  more  for  this, 
That  you  have  rent  the  veil,  and  ushered  in 
A  fellow  soul  to  your  soul's  holy  place. 
And  why  should  either  blush  that  we  have  been 
One  day  in  Eden,  in  our  nakedness  ? 
— 'T  is  conscience  makes  us  sinners,  not  our  sin. 


27 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   THE   SAME 

WHO    WOULD    COMFORT    HIM 

I  DID  not  ask  your  pity,  dear.     Your  zeal 
I  know.     It  cannot  cure  me  of  my  woes. 
And  you,  in  your  sweet  happiness,  who  knows, 
Deserve  it  rather  I  should  pity  feel 
For  what  the  coming  years  from  you  conceal. 
I  did  but  cry,  thou  dear  Samaritan, 
Out  of  my  bitterness  of  soul.     Each  man 
Hath  his  own  sorrow  treading  on  his  heel, 
Ready  to  strike  him,  and  must  keep  his  shield 
To  his  own  back.     Fate's  arrows  thickly  fly, 
And,  if  they  strike  not  now,  will  strike  at  even. 
And  so  I  ask  no  pity.     On  life's  field 
The  wounded  crawl  together,  but  their  cry 
Is  not  to  one  another  but  to  Heaven. 


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of  Proteus 


THE   RELIGION   OF  LOVE 

SO  thou  but  love  me,  dear,  with  thy  whole  heart 
What  care  I  for  the  rest,  for  good  or  ill  ? 
What  for  the  peace  of  soul  good  deeds  impart, 
What  for  the  tears  unholy  dreams  distil? 
These  cannot  make  my  joy,  nor  shall  they  kill. 
Thou  only  perfect  peace  and  virtue  art 
And  holiness  for  me  and  strength  and  will  — 
So  thou  but  love  me  with  a  perfect  heart. 
I  ask  thee  now  no  longer  to  be  wise ; 
No  longer  to  be  good,  but  loving  me. 
I  ask  thee  nothing  now  but  only  this. 
Henceforth  my  Bible,  dear,  shall  be  thine  eyes. 
My  beads  thy  lips,  my  prayers  thy  constancy, 
My  heaven  thine  arms,  eternity  thy  kiss. 


29 


The  Love  Sonnets 


TO   ONE   WHO    LOVED    HIM 

1  CANNOT  love  you,  love,  as  you  love  me, 
In  singleness  of  soul,  and  faith  untried  : 
I  have  no  faith  in  any  destiny, 
In  any  heaven,  even  at  your  side. 
Our  hearts  are  all  too  weak,  the  world  too  wide. 
You  but  a  woman.     If  I  dare  to  give 
Some  thought,  some  tenderness,  a  little  pride, 
A  little  love,  't  is  yours,  love,  to  receive. 
And  do  not  grieve,  though  now  the  gift  appear 
A  drop  to  your  love's  ocean.     Time  shall  see. 
—  Oh,  I  could  prophesy  :  —  That  day  is  sure. 
Though  not  perhaps  this  week,  nor  month,  nor  year, 
When  your  great  love  shall  clean  forgotten  be 
And  my  poor  tenderness  shall  yet  endure. 
'T  is  not  the  trees  that  make  the  tallest  show. 
Which  stand  out  stoutest  when  the  tempests  blow. 


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of  Proteus 


TO   THE    SAME 

EXHORTING   HER  TO    PATIENCE 

WHY  do  we  fret  at  the  inconstancy 
Of  our  frail  hearts,  which  cannot  always  love? 
Time  rushes  onward,  and  we  mortals  move 
Like  waifs  upon  a  river,  neither  free 
To  halt  nor  hurry.     Sweet,  if  destiny 
Throws  us  together  for  an  hour,  a  day. 
In  the  back-water  of  this  quiet  bay. 
Let  us  rejoice.     Before  us  lies  the  sea. 
Where  we  must  all  be  lost  in  spite  of  love. 
We  dare  not  stop  to  question.     Happiness 
Lies  in  our  hand  unsought,  a  treasure  trove. 
Time  has  short  patience  of  man's  vain  distress ; 
And  fate  grows  angry  at  too  long  delay; 
And  floods  rise  fast,  and  we  are  swept  away. 


31 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO  JULIET 

REMINDING   HER   OF  A   PROMISE 
I 

OH,  Juliet,  we  have  quarrelled  with  our  fate, 
And  fate  has  struck  us.     Wherefore  do  we  cry? 
We  prayed  for  liberty,  and  now  too  late 
Find  liberty  is  this,  to  say  "  good-bye." 
The  winter  which  we  loved  not  has  gone  by, 
And  spring  is  come.     The  gardens,  which  were  bare 
When  we  first  wandered  through  them,  you  and  I, 
The  prisoners  of  our  own  vain  wishes,  are 
Now  full  of  golden  flowers.     The  very  lane 
Down  to  the  sea  is  green.     The  ca6lus  hedge 
We  saw  cut  down  has  sprouted  new  again. 
And  swallows  have  their  nests  on  the  cliff's  edge 
Where  we  so  often  sat  and  dared  complain 
Because  our  joy  was  new,  and  called  it  pain. 


32 


of  Proteus 

THE  SAME 

(^Continue  d^ 

II 

YES,  Spring  is  come,  but  joy  alas  is  gone,  — 
Gone  ere  we  knew  it,  while  our  foolish  eyes, 
Which  should  have  watched  its  motions  every  one 
Were  looking  elsewhere,  at  the  hill-s,  the  skies, 
Chasing  vain  thoughts,  as  children  butterflies, 
Until  the  hour  struck  and  the  day  was  done. 
And  we  looked  up  in  passionate  surprise 
To  find  that  clouds  had  blotted  out  our  sun. 
Our  joys  are  gone  —  and  what  is  left  to  us. 
Who  loved  not  even  love  when  it  was  here  ? 
What  but  a  voice  which  sobs  monotonous 
As  these  sad  waves  upon  the  rocks,  the  dear 
Fond  voice  which  once  made  music  with  our  own, 
And  which  our  hearts  now  ache  to  think  upon. 


33 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

(Continjied) 
III 

OLD  memories  are  sweet,  but  these  are  new 
And  smart  like  wounds  yet  green.     But  one 
there  is 
Which,  for  the  cause  that  it  was  dear  to  you 
In  days  which  counted  upon  greater  bliss. 
Is  fairer  now  and  dearer  far  than  these ; 
And  this  the  memory  is  of  some  hours  spent 
One  afternoon  when,  seated  at  your  knees, 
I  made  narration  (it  was  middle  Lent 
And  you  with  Judas  flowers  had  filled  your  lap), 
Of  the  wise  secret  of  these  rhymes  of  mine, 
And  gave  a  promise,  which  behold  I  keep. 
To  write  them  out  for  you,  each  idle  line. 
Throwing  you  all  my  rubbish  in  one  heap. 
Poor  stuff  perhaps ;  —  and  yet  it  made  you  weep. 

34 


of  Proteus 
TO  JULIET 

FEAR  HAS  CAST  OUT  LOVE 

'HP  IS  not  that  love  is  less  or  sorrow  more 

1     Than  in  the  days  when  first  these  things  began. 
Even  then  you  doubted,  and  our  hearts  were  sore 
And  you  rebelled  because  I  was  a  man. 
Even  then  you  fought  and  wrestled  with  my  plan 
Of  earthly  bliss  ;  —  what  bitter  anguish  too 
When  at  the  hour  decreed  our  passion  ran 
Out  of  our  keeping  and  love  claimed  its  due. 
'T  is  not  love's  fault  we  part,  or  grief's.     Alas, 
One  mightier  now  compels  us  with  his  nod. 
The  fire  of  heaven  has  touched  us,  and  we  pass 
From  pleasure's  chastenings  to  a  fiercer  rod ; 
And  fear  has  cast  out  love,  for  flesh  is  grass 
And  we  are  withered  with  the  wrath  of  God. 


35 


The  Love  Sonnets 

TO  ONE  WHO  WOULD  '^  REMAIN 
FRIENDS" 

WHAT  is  this  prate  of  friendship?     Kings  dis- 
crowned 
Go  forth,  not  citizens  but  outlawed  men. 
If  love  has  ceased  to  give  a  loyal  sound, 
Let  there  at  least  be  silence.     Once  again 
I  go,  proscribed,  exiled,  dominionless 
Out  of  your  coasts,  yet  scorning  to  complain. 
I  grudge  not  your  allegiance  nor  my  bliss, 
I  yield  the  pleasure  as  I  keep  the  pain. 
Rebellion's  rights  are  limited  though  strong. 
The  right  to  take  gives  not  the  right  to  give. 
Mine  were  the  sole  right  and  prerogative 
To  give  a  title  or  forgive  a  wrong. 
This  gift  of  friendship  was  not  yours  to  bring. 
As  I  have  lived  in  love  I  still  will  live 
Or  die,  if  needs  must,  and  without  reprieve, 
Your  lover  yet,  and  kingdomless  a  king. 

36 


of  Proteus 


TO   ONE  NOW   ESTRANGED 

WHY  did  you  love  me?     Was  it  not  enough 
That  the  world  loved  you,  all  the  world  and  I, 
Or  was  your  heart  of  so  sublime  a  stuff 
That  it  might  trifle  with  inconstancy 
And  love  and  cease  to  love  and  yet  not  die? 
Heaven  was  your  throne  by  right  of  happiness 
And  earth  your  footstool.     All  things  great  and  high 
Waited  your  bidding,  love  itself  no  less. 
Yet,  if  you  deigned  to  love,  if  from  your  place 
In   heaven   you   stooped,   if,  when   your   heart   was 

moved, 
A  thrill  of  human  pleasure  tinged  your  face, 
If  't  was  in  weakness  not  in  strength  you  loved, 
Then  there  was  cause  to  blush.     Yet,  loving,  how 
Shall  you  blush  less  to  be  apostate  now? 


37 


The  Love  Sonnets 
FAREWELL  TO   JULIET 


JULIET,  farewell.    I  would  not  be  forgiven 
Even  if  I  forgave.     These  words  must  be 
The  last  between  us  two  in  earth  or  heaven, 
The  last  and  bitterest.     You  are  henceforth  free 
For  ever  from  my  bitter  words  and  me. 
You  shall  not  at  my  hand  be  further  vexed 
With  either  love,  reproach  or  jealousy, 
(So  help  me  heaven),  in  this  world  or  the  next. 
Our  souls  are  single  for  all  time  to  come 
And  for  eternity,  and  this  farewell 
Is  as  the  trumpet  note,  the  crack  of  doom, 
Which  heralds  an  eternal  silence.     Hell 
Has  no  more  fixed  and  absolute  decree. 
And  heaven  and  hell  may  meet,  —  yet  never  we. 


38 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 

(jContinued) 

II 

'T^  IS  strange  we  are  thus  parted,  not  by  death 
1       Or  man's  device,  but  by  our  own  mad  will. 
We  who  have  stood  together  on  life's  path 
Thro*  half  a  youth  of  good  repute  and  ill, 
Friends  more  than  lovers.     See,  love's  citadel 
We  held  so  stoutly  'gainst  a  world  in  arms 
Lies  all  dismantled  now,  a  sight  to  fill 
The  earth  with  lamentations  and  alarms. 
Whose  was  the  fault?     I  dare  not  ask  nor  say. 
If  there  was  treachery,  't  is  best  untold. 
The  price  of  treason  we  receive  to-day 
Is  paid  to  both  of  us  in  evil  gold. 
Ay,  take  thy  bitter  freedom.     'T  is  the  fee 
Of  love  betrayed  and  faith's  apostasy. 


39 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE  SAME 
{Co7itinued) 

III 

WE  may  not  meet.     I  could  not  for  pride's  sake 
Dissemble  further,  and  I  suffer  pain, 
A  palpable  distinct  and  physical  ache, 
When  our  eyes  meet  by  accident,  and  when 
I  hear  you  talk  in  your  pathetic  strain 
Which  always  moved  me.     Only  yesterday, 
As  I  was  standing  with  a  crowd  of  men 
In  a  long  corridor,  you  came  my  way 
And  chanced  to  stop,  and  thus  by  chance  I  heard 
A  score  of  phrases  uttered  in  that  sad 
Half-suppliant  voice  which  once  my  spirit  stirred 
To  its  foundations.     Yet  your  theme  was  glad  — 
Strangers  your  hearers.     What  was  in  these  spells 
To  move  me  still }     A  trick,  and  nothing  else ! 


40 


of  Proteus 

THE  SAME 
{Continued) 

IV 

WE  vex  each  other  with  our  presence,  I 
By  my  regrets  and  by  my  mocking  face, 
You  by  your  laughter  and  mad  gaiety, 
And  both  by  cruel  thoughts  of  happier  days. 
Is  then  the  world  so  narrow  that  we  pace 
These  streets  like  prisoners  still  with  eyes  askance, 
As  bound  together  in  the  fell  embrace 
Of  a  dark  chain  which  bars  deliverance  ? 
Nay,  go  your  ways.     I  will  not  vex  you  more. 
Make  your  own  terms  with  life,  while  you  are  fair. 
There  is  none  better  learned  in  woman's  lore. 
You  yet  may  take  revenge  on  grief  and  care, 
And  't  was  your  nature  ever  to  be  gay. 
Why  should  I  scoff?     Be  merry  while  you  may. 


41 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 
(^Continued) 


1D0  not  love  you.     To  have  said  this  once 
Had  seemed  to  both  of  us  a  monstrous  lie, 
An  idle  boast,  love's  last  extravagance 
Or  the  mere  paradox  of  vanity. 
Now  it  is  true  and  yet  more  hideously 
More  strangely  monstrous.     I,  no  less  than  you. 
Here  own  at  length  the  worm  which  cannot  die, 
The  burden  of  a  pain  for  ever  new. 
This  is  the  "  pang  of  loss,"  the  bitterest 
Which  hell  can  give.     We  are  shut  out  from  heaven 
And  never  more  shall  look  upon  love's  face. 
Being  with  those  who  perish  unforgiven. 
Never  to  see  love's  face  !     Ah,  pain  in  pain, 
Which  we  do  well  to  weep  and  weep  again. 


42 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 
{Contitiued) 

VI 

YET  we  shall  live  without  love,  as  some  live 
Without  their  limbs,  their  senses,  maimed  or  deaf. 
We  even  shall  forget  love,  and  shall  thrive 
And  prosper  and  grow  fat  upon  our  grief. 
You  are  consoled  already  more  than  half, 
And  wear  your  sorrow  lightly.     I  will  boast 
No  longer  the  refusal  of  relief 
Than  as  a  decent  mourner  of  hopes  crossed. 
We  yet  shall  laugh,  and  laughter  is  more  loud 
When  following  tears.     The  men  who  drive  a  hearse 
Are  not  the  least  lighthearted  of  the  crowd. 
See,  we  have  made  love's  epitaph  in  verse 
And  fairly  buried  him.     God's  ways  are  best. 
Then  home  to  pleasure  and  the  funeral  feast. 


43 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE  SAME 
{Continued') 

VII 

DO  you  remember  how  I  laughed  at  you 
In  the  Beauheu  woods,  and  how  I  made  my  peace  ? 
It  was  your  thirtieth  birthday,  and  you  threw 
Stones  like  a  school-girl  at  the  chestnut  trees. 
The  heavens  were  light  above  us  and  the  breeze. 
Your  Corydon  and  all  the  merry  crew 
Had  wandered  to  a  distance  —  busier  bees 
Than  we,  who  cared  not  where  the  hazels  grew. 
We  were  alone  at  last.     I  had  been  teasing 
You  with  the  burden  of  years  left  behind. 
You  were  too  fair  to  find  my  wit  displeasing, 
And  I  too  tender  to  be  less  than  kind. 
Your  pebbles  struck  me.     ''Wretch,"  I  cried.     The 

word 
Entered  our  hearts  that  instant  like  a  sword. 

44 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 

{Continued) 

VIII 

THRICE   happy  fools!     What   wisdom    shall   we 
learn 
In  this  world  or  the  next,  if  next  there  be, 
More  deep,  more  full,  more  worthy  our  concern 
Than  that  first  word  of  folly  taught  us  ?     We 
Had  suddenly  grown  silent.     I  could  see 
Your  cheek  had  lost  a  little  of  its  hue, 
And  your  lips  trembled,  and  beseechingly 
Your  blue  eyes  turned  to  mine,  and  well  I  knew 
Your  woman's  instinct  had  divined  my  speech, 
The  meaning  of  a  word  so  lightly  spoken. 
The  word  was  a  confession,  clear  to  each, 
A  pledge  as  plain  and  as  distinct  a  token 
As  that  of  Peter  at  his  master's  knees, 
*'  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee  more  than  these." 

45 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

{^Continued) 

IX 

I  SEE  you,  Juliet,  still,  with  your  straw  hat 
Loaded  with  vines,  and  with  your  dear  pale  face, 
On  which  those  thirty  years  so  lightly  sat. 
And  the  white  outline  of  your  muslin  dress. 
You  wore  a  XiXSXq  fichu  trimmed  with  lace 
And  crossed  in  front,  as  was  the  fashion  then, 
Bound  at  your  waist  with  a  broad  band  or  sash, 
All  white  and  fresh  and  virginally  plam. 
There  was  a  sound  of  shouting  far  away 
Down  in  the  valley,  as  they  called  to  us, 
And  you,  with  hands  clasped  seeming  still  to  pray 
Patience  of  fate,  stood  listening  to  me  thus 
With  heaving  bosom.     There  a  rose  lay  curled. 
It  was  the  reddest  rose  in  all  the  world. 


46 


of  Proteus 

THE  SAME 

{Continued) 

X 

I  THINK  there  never  was  a  clearer  woman, 
A  better,  kinder,  truer  than  you  were, 
A  gentler  spirit  more  divinely  human 
Than  yours  with  your  sweet  melancholy  air 
Of  tender  gaiety,  which  seemed  like  care, 
And  in  your  voice  a  sob  as  of  distress 
At  the  world's  ways,  its  sin  and  its  despair, 
Being  yourself  all  strange  to  wickedness. 
Now  you  are  neither  gentle,  kind,  nor  good, 
And  you  have  sorrows  of  your  own  to  grieve. 
And  in  your  mirth  compassion  has  no  mood ; 
You  wear  no  more  your  heart  upon  your  sleeve, 
And  if  your  voice  still  sobs  't  is  with  a  sense 
Of  sorrow's  power,  grief's  wealth,  experience. 


47 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

{Continued) 
XI 

\ 

A"  WOMAN  with  a  past."     What  happier  omen        ' 
Could  heart  desire  for  mistress  or  for  friend? 
Phoenix  of  friends,  and  most  divine  of  women, 
Skilled  in  all  fence  to  venture  or  defend 
And  with  love's  science  at  your  .fingers'  end, 
No  tears  to  vex,  no  ignorance  to  bore, 
A  fancy  ripe,  the  zest  which  sorrows  lend !  — 
I  would  to  God  we  had  not  met  before. 
—  I  would  to  God !  and  yet  to  God  I  would 
That  we  had  never  met.     To  see  you  thus 
Is  grief  and  wounds  and  poison  to  my  blood. 
Oh,  this  is  sacrilege  and  foul  abuse. 
You  were  a  thing  for  honour  not  vile  use, 
Not  for  the  mad  world's  wicked  sinks  and  stews. 


48 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 

{Continued) 
XII 

WHAT  have  I  done?     What  gross  impiety 
Prompted  my  hand  thus  against  God  and  good  ? 
Was  there  not  joy  on  Earth  enough  for  me 
That  I  must  scale  the  Heaven  where  you  stood, 
And  with  my  sinful  blood  pollute  your  blood  ? 
You  were  the  type  of  wise  sweet  sanctity, 
Of  that  unearthly  half  of  womanhood 
Which  well  redeems  the  rest.     Oh,  Juliet,  we 
Sinned  in  a  temple,  and  our  tears  to-day 
Appeal  in  vain  to  heaven  which  dares  not  hear. 
God  is  not  always  mocked.     And  thus  we  pay 
Our  uttermost  debt  unheeded,  tear  on  tear 
And  scoff  on  scoff  and  sin  heaped  up  on  sin, 
While  there  is  justice  on  the  earth  to  men. 


49 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

{Continued) 

XIII 

WE  planted  love,  and  lo  it  bred  a  brood 
Of  lusts  and  vanities  and  senseless  joys. 
We  planted  love,  and  you  have  gathered  food 
Of  every  bitter  herb  which  fills  and  cloys. 
Your  meat  is  loud  excitement  and  mad  noise, 
Your  wine  the  unblest  ambition  of  command 
O'er  hearts  of  men,  of  dotards,  idiots,  boys. 
These  are  the  playthings  fitted  to  your  hand, 
These  are  your  happiness.     You  weep  no  more, 
But  I  must  weep.     My  heaven  has  been  defiled. 
My  sin  has  found  me  out  and  smites  me  sore. 
And  folly,  justified  of  her  own  child, 
Rules  all  the  empire  where  love  reigned  of  yore, 
Folly  red-cheeked  but  rotten  to  the  core. 


SO 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 

{Conthmed) 

XIV 

LAME,  impotent  conclusion  to  youth's  dreams 
Vast  as  all  heaven  !     See,  what  glory  lies 
Entangled  here  in  these  base  stratagems, 
What  virtue  done  to  death  !     O  glorious  sighs, 
Sublime  beseechings,  high  cajoleries, 
Fond  wraths,  brave  raptures,  all  that  sometime  was 
Our  daily  bread  of  gods  beneath  the  skies, 
How  are  ye  ended,  in  what  utter  loss ! 
Time  was,  time  is,  and  time  is  yet  to  come, 
Till  even  time  itself  shall  have  its  end. 
These  were  eternal  —  and  behold,  a  tomb. 
Come,  let  us  laugh  and  eat  and  drink.     God  send 
What  all  the  world  must  need  one  day  as  we, 
Speedy  oblivion,  rest  for  memory. 


51 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE  SAME 

{Continued) 

XV 

FAREWELL,  then.     It  is  finished.     I  forego 
With  this  all  right  in  you,  even  that  of  tears. 
If  I  have  spoken  hardly,  it  will  show 
How  much  I  loved  you.     With  you  disappears 
A  glory,  a  romance  of  many  years. 
What  you  may  be  henceforth  I  will  not  know. 
The  phantom  of  your  presence  on  my  fears 
Is  impotent  at  length  for  weal  or  woe. 
Your  past,  your  present,  all  alike  must  fade 
In  a  new  land  of  dreams  where  love  is  not. 
Then  kiss  me  and  farewell.     The  choice  is  made 
And  we  shall  live  to  see  the  past  forgot. 
If  not  forgiven.     See,  I  came  to  curse. 
Yet  stay  to  bless.     I  know  not  which  is  worse. 


52 


PART   III 
GODS    AND    FALSE    GODS 


HE  DESIRES  THE   IMPOSSIBLE 

IF  it  were  possible  the  fierce  sun  should, 
Standing  in  heaven  unloved,  companionless, 
Enshrined  be  in  some  white-bosomed  cloud, 
And  so  forget  his  rage  and  loneliness; 
If  it  were  possible  the  bitter  seas 
Should  suddenly  grow  sweet,  till  at  their  brink 
Birds   with   bright   eyes    should    stoop   athirst   and 

drink;  — 
If  these  were  possible;  and  if  to  these 
It  should   be  proved  that  love  has  sometimes  been 
'Twixt  lambs  and  leopards,  doves  and  hawks,  that 

snow 
Clasps  the  bare  rocks,  that  rugged  oaks  grow  green 
In  the  west  wind,  that  pinkest  blossoms  blow 
Upon  May's  blackest  thorn;  —  then,  only  then, 
I  might  believe  that  love  between  us  two 
Was  still  in  heaven's  gift,  sweet  child.  —  And  you? 

55 


The  Love  Sonnets 


ST.    VALENTINE'S    DAY 

TO-DAY,  all  day,  I  rode  upon  the  down, 
With  hounds  and  horsemen,  a  brave  company. 
On  this  side  in  its  glory  lay  the  sea, 
On  that  the  Sussex  weald,  a  sea  of  brown. 
The  wind  was  light,  and  brightly  the  sun  shone, 
And  still  we  galloped  on  from  gorse  to  gorse. 
And  once,  when  checked,  a  thrush  sang,  and  my  horse 
Pricked  his  quick  ears  as  to  a  sound  unknown. 
I  knew  the  Spring  was  come.     I  knew  it  even 
Better  than  all  by  this,  that  through  my  chase 
In  bush  and  stone  and  hill  and  sea  and  heaven 
I  seemed  to  see  and  follow  still  your  face. 
Your  face  my  quarry  was.     For  it  I  rode. 
My  horse  a  thing  of  wings,  myself  a  god. 


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of  Proteus 


TO    ONE   WHOM    HE   DARED   NOT   LOVE 

AS  one  who,  in  a  desert  wandering 
Alone  and  faint  beneath  a  pitiless  sky, 
And  doubting  in  his  heart  if  he  shall  bring 
His  bones  back  to  his  kindred  or  there  die, 
Finds  at  his  feet  a  treasure  suddenly 
Such  as  would  make  him  for  all  time  a  king, 
And  so  forgets  his  fears  and  with  keen  eye 
Falls  to  a-counting  each  new  precious  thing, — 
—  So  was  I  when  you  told  me  yesterday 
The  tale  of  your  dear  love.     Awhile  I  stood 
Astonished  and  enraptured,  and  my  heart 
Began  to  count  its  treasures.     Now  dismay 
Steals  back  my  joy,  and  terror  chills  my  blood, 
And  I  remember  only  ''  we  must  part." 


57 


The  Love  Sonnets 


ON  A  LOST   OPPORTUNITY 

WE  might,  if  you  had  willed,  have  conquered 
heaven. 
Once  only  in  our  lives  before  the  gate 
Of  Paradise  we  stood,  one  fortunate  even, 
And  gazed  in  sudden  rapture  through  the  grate. 
And,  while  you  stood  astonished,  I,  our  fate 
Venturing,  pushed  the  latch  and  found  it  free. 
There  stood  the  tree  of  knowledge  fair  and  great 
Beside  the  tree  of  life.     One  instant  we 
Stood  in  that  happy  garden,  guardianless. 
My  hands  already  turned  towards  the  tree 
And  in  another  moment  we  had  known 
The  taste  of  joy  and  immortality 
And  been  ourselves  as  gods.     But  in  distress 
You  thrust  me  back  with  supplicating  arms 
And  eyes  of  terror,  till  the  impatient  sun 
Had  time  to  set  and  till  the  heavenly  host 
Rushed  forth  on  us  with  clarions  and  alarms 
And  cast  us  out  for  ever,  blind  and  lost. 

5S 


of  Proteus 
TO   ONE 

ON    HER   WASTE   OF    TIME 

WHY  practise,  love,  this  small  economy 
Of  your  heart's  favours  ?     Can  you  keep  a  kiss 
To  be  enjoyed  in  age  ?  and  would  the  free 
Expense  of  pleasure  leave  you  penniless  ? 
Nay,  nay.     Be  wise.     Believe  me,  pleasure  is 
A  gambler's  token,  only  gold  to-day. 
The  day  of  love  is  short,  and  every  bliss 
Untasted  now  is  a  bliss  thrown  away. 
'T  were  pitiful,  in  truth,  such  treasures  should 
Lie  by  like  miser's  crusts  till  mouldy  grown. 
Think  you  the  hand  of  age  will  be  less  rude 
In  touching  your  sweet  bosom  than  my  own  ? 
Alas,  what  matter,  when  our  heads  are  grey. 
Whether  you  loved  or  did  not  love  to-day  .'* 


59 


The  Love  Sonnets 


THE   HAUNTED    HOUSE 

HOW  loud  the  storm  blew  all  that  bitter  night ! 
The  loosened  ivy  tapping  on  the  pane 
Woke  me  and  woke,  again  and  yet  again, 
Till  I  was  full  awake  and  sat  upright. 
I  listened  to  the  noises  of  the  night. 
And  presently  I  heard,  disguised  yet  plain, 
A  footstep  on  the  stair  which  mounted  light 
Towards  me,  and  my  heart  outbeat  the  rain. 
I  knew  that  it  was  you.     I  knew  it  even 
Before  the  door,  which  by  design  ajar 
Waited  your  coming,  had  disclosed  my  fate. 
I  felt  a  wind  upon  my  face  from  heaven. 
I  felt  the  presence  of  a  life.     My  hair 
Was  touched  as  by  a  spirit.     Insensate 
I  drew  you  to  my  bosom.     Ah,  too  late ! 
I  clutched  the  darkness.     There  was  nothing  there. 


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of  Proteus 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LOVE 

AH  Love,  dear  Love.     In  vain  I  scoff.      In  vain 
I  ply  my  barren  wit,  and  jest  at  thee. 
Thou  heedest  not,  or  dost  forgive  the  pain, 
And  in  thy  own  good  time  and  thy  own  way, 
Waiting  my  silence,  thou  dost  vanquish  me. 
Thou  comest  at  thy  will  in  sun  or  rain 
And  at  the  hour  appointed,  a  spring  day, 
An  autumn  night  —  and  lo,  I  serve  again. 
Forgive  me,  touch  me,  chide  me.     What  to  thee, 
God  that  thou  art,  are  these  vain  shifts  of  mine? 
Let  me  but  know  thee.     Thou  alone  art  wise. 
I  ask  not  to  be  wise  or  great  or  free 
Or  aught  but  at  thy  knees  and  wholly  thine. 
Thus,  and  to  feel  thy  hand  upon  mine  eyes. 


6r 


The  Love  Sonnets 
TO   ONE 

EXCUSING   HIS   POVERTY 

AH  !  love,  impute  it  not  to  me  a  sin 
That  my  poor  soul  thus  beggared  comes  to  thee. 
My  soul  a  pilgrim  was,  in  search  of  thine, 
And  met  these  accidents  by  land  and  sea. 
The  world  was  hard,  and  took  its  usury. 
Its  toll  for  each  new  night  in  each  new  inn ; 
And  every  road  had  robber  bands  to  fee  ; 
And  all,  even  kindness,  must  be  paid  in  coin. 
Behold  my  scrip  is  empty,  my  heart  bare. 
I  give  thee  nothing  who  my  all  would  give. 
My  pilgrimage  is  finished,  and  I  fare 
Bare  to  my  death,  unless  with  thee  I  live. 
Ah  !  give,  love,  and  forgive  that  I  am  poor. 
Ah  !  take  me  to  thy  arms  and  ask  no  more. 


62 


of  Proteus 

TO    ONE   WHO   WOULD   MAKE   A 
CONFESSION 

OH  !  leave  the  Past  to  bury  its  own  dead. 
The  Past  is  naught  to  us,  the  Present  all. 
What  need  of  last  year's  leaves  to  strew  Love's  bed  ? 
What  need  of  ghosts  to  grace  a  festival  ? 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  those  days  recall, 
Those  days  not  ours.     For  us  the  feast  is  spread, 
The  lamps  are  lit,  and  music  plays  withal. 
Then  let  us  love  and  leave  the  rest  unsaid. 
This  island  is  our  home.     Around  it  roar 
Great  gulfs  and  oceans,  channels,  straits,  and  seas. 
What  matter  in  what  wreck  we  reached  the  shore, 
So  we  both  reached  it  ?     We  can  mock  at  these. 
Oh !  leave  the  Past,  if  Past  indeed  there  be. 
I  would  not  know  it.     I  would  know  but  thee. 


63 


The   Love  Sonnets 


THE   PLEASURES   OF    LOVE 

I  DO  not  care  for  kisses.     'T  is  a  debt 
We  paid  for  the  first  privilege  of  love. 
These  are  the  rains  of  April  which  have  wet 
Our  fallow  hearts  and  forced  their  germs  to  move. 
Now  the  green  corn  has  sprouted.     Each  new  day- 
Brings  better  pleasures,  a  more  dear  surprise, 
The  blade,  the  ear,  the  harvest  —  and  our  way 
Leads  through  a  region  wealthy  grown  and  wise. 
We  now  compare  our  fortunes.     Each  his  store 
Displays  to  kindred  eyes  of  garnered  grain, 
Two  happy  farmers,  learned  in  love's  lore, 
Who  weigh  and  touch  and  argue  and  complain 
Dear  endless  argument !     Yet  sometimes  we 
Even  as  we  argue  kiss.     There !     Let  it  be. 


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of  Proteus 


HE   APPEALS   AGAINST   HIS   BOND 

IN  my  distress  Love  made  me  sign  a  bond, 
A  cruel  bond.     'T  was  by  necessity 
Wrung  from  a  foolish  heart,  alas,  too  fond, 
Too  bHndly  fond,  its  error  to  foresee. 
And  now  my  soul's  estate,  in  jeopardy, 
Lies  to  a  pledge  it  never  can  redeem. 
Love's  loan  was  love,  one  hour  of  ecstasy. 
His  penalty  eternal  loss  of  him. 
—  See,  I  am  penniless,  the  forfeit  paid, 
And  go  a  beggar  forth  from  thy  dear  sight. 
My  pound  of  more  than  flesh  too  strictly  weighed 
And  cut  too  near  the  heart.     Fair  Israelite, 
Thy  plea  was  just.     Thy  right  has  been  confessed. 
And  yet  a  work  of  mercy  were  twice  blessed. 


6S 


The  Love  Sonnets 


TO   ONE   WHO   SPOKE   ILL   OF   HIM 

WHAT  is  your  quarrel  with  me,  in  love's  name, 
Fair  queen  of  wrath?     What  evil  have  I  done, 
What  treason  to  the  thought  of  our  dear  shame 
Subscribed  or  plotted  ?     Is  my  heart  less  one 
In  its  obedience  to  your  stern  decrees 
Than  on  the  day  when  first  you  said  "  I  please," 
And  with  your  lips  ordained  our  union? 
Am  I  not  now,  as  then,  upon  my  knees  ? 
You  bade  me  love  you,  and  the  deed  was  done, 
And  when  you  cried  **  enough  "  I  stopped,  and  when 
You  bade  me  go  I  went,  and  when  you  said 
"Forget  me"  I  forgot.     Alas,  what  wrong 
Would  you  avenge  upon  a  loyal  head, 
Which  ever  bowed  to  you  in  joy  and  pain, 
That  you  thus  scourge  me  with  your  pitiless  tongue? 


66 


of  Proteus 
THE   THREE   AGES   OF    WOMAN 


LOVE,  in  thy  youth,  a  stranger,  knelt  to  thee, 
With  cheeks  all  red  and  golden  locks  all  curled. 
And  cried,  "  Sweet  child,  if  thou  wilt  worship  me, 
Thou  shalt  possess  the  kingdoms  of  the  world." 
But  you  looked  down  and  said,  "  I  know  you  not, 
Nor  want  I  other  kingdorn  than  my  soul." 
Till  Love  in  shame,  convicted  of  his  plot. 
Left  you  and  turned  him  to  some  other  goal. 
And  this  discomfiture  which  you  had  seen 
Long  served  you  for  your  homily  and  boast, 
While,  of  your  beauty  and  yourself  the  queen. 
You  lived  a  monument  of  vain  love  crossed. 
With  scarce  a  thought  of  that  which  might  have  been 
To  scare  you  with  the  ghost  of  pleasures  lost. 


67 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

{Continued) 

II 

YOUR  youth  flowed  on,  a  river  chaste  and  fair, 
Till  thirty  years  were  written  to  your  name. 
A  wife,  a  mother,  these  the  titles  were 
Which  conquered  for  you  the  world's  fairest  fame. 
In  all  things  you  were  v/ise  but  in  this  one. 
That  of  your  wisdom  you  yourself  did  doubt. 
Youth  spent  like  age,  no  joy  beneath  the  sun. 
Your  glass  of  beauty  vainly  running  out. 
Then  suddenly  again,  ere  well  you  knew, 
Love  looked  upon  you  tenderly,  yet  sad : 
*'  Are  these  wise  follies,  then,  enough  for  you  ?  " 
He  said ;  —  "  Love's  wisdom  were  itself  less  mad." 
And  you  :    "  What  wouldst  thou  of  me }  "     "  My 

bare  due, 
In  token  of  what  joys  may  yet  be  had." 

68 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 

{Cofitimced) 
III 

AGAIN  Love  left  you.     With  appealing  eyes 
You  watched  him  go,  and  lips  apart  to  speak, 
He  left  you,  and  once  more  the  sun  did  rise 
And  the  sun  set,  and  week  trod  close  on  week 
And  month  on  month,  till  you  had  reached  the  goal 
Of  forty  years,  and  life's  full  waters  grew 
To  bitterness  and  flooded  all  your  soul, 
Making  you  loathe  old  things  and  pine  for  new. 
And  you  into  the  wilderness  had  fled, 
And  in  your  desolation  loud  did  cry, 
"  Oh  for  a  hand  to  turn  these  stones  to  bread !  " 
Then  in  your  ear  Love  whispered  scornfully, 
*'Thou  too,  poor  fool,  thou,  even  thou,"  he  said, 
"  Shalt  taste  thy  little  honey  ere  thou  die." 


69 


The  Love  Sonnets 


SIBYLLINE    BOOKS 

WHEN  first,  a  boy,  at  your  fair  knees  I  kneeled, 
'T  was  with  a  worthy  offering.     In  my  hand 
My  young  life's  book  I  held,  a  volume  sealed, 
Which  none  but  you,  I  deemed,  might  understand ; 
And  you  I  did  entreat  to  loose  the  band 
And  read  therein  your  own  soul's  destiny. 
But,  Tarquin-like,  you  turned  from  my  demand, 
Too  proudly  fair  to  find  your  fate  in  me. 
When  now  I  come,  alas,  what  hands  have  turned 
Those  virgin  pages  !     Some  are  torn  away, 
And  some  defaced,  and  some  with  passion  burned. 
And  some  besmeared  with  life's  least  holy  clay. 
Say,  shall  I  offer  you  these  pages  wet 
With  blood  and  tears?  and  will  your  sorrow  read 
What  your  joy  heeded  not?  —  Unopened  yet 
One  page  remains.     It  still  may  hold  a  fate, 
A  counsel  for  the  day  of  utter  need. 
Nay,  speak,  sad  heart,  speak  quick.    The  hour  is  late. 

Age  threatens  us.     The  Gaul  is  at  the  gate. 

70 


of  Proteus 

ON   READING  THE   MEMOIRS    OF 
M.   D'ARTAGNAN 

WHY  was  I  born  in  this  degenerate  age? 
Or  rather  why,  a  thousand  times,  with  soul 
Of  such  degenerate  stuff  that  a  mute  rage 
Is  all  its  reason,  tears  the  only  toll 
It  takes  on  life,  and  impotence  its  goal? 
Why  was  I  born  to  this  sad  heritage 
Of  fierce  desires  which  cannot  fate  control, 
Of  idle  hopes  life  never  can  assuage  ? 
Why  was  I  born  thus  weak?  —  Oh  to  have  been 
A  merry  fool,  at  jest  with  destiny ; 
A  free  hand  ready  and  a  heart  as  free ; 
A  ruffler  in  the  camps  of  Mazarin. 
Oh  for  the  honest  soul  of  d'Artagnan, 
Twice  happy  knave,  a  Gascon  and  a  man ! 


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THE   TWO    HIGHWAYMEN 

I    LONG  have  had  a  quarrel  set  with  Time, 
Because  he  robbed  me.     Every  day  of  life 
Was  wrested  from  me  after  bitter  strife, 
I  never  yet  could  see  the  sun  go  down 
But  I  was  angry  in  my  heart,  nor  hear 
The  leaves  fall  in  the  wind  without  a  tear 
Over  the  dying  summer.     I  have  known 
No  truce  with  Time  nor,  Time's  accomplice.  Death. 
The  fair  world  is  the  witness  of  a  crime 
Repeated  every  hour.     For  life  and  breath 
Are  sweet  to  all  who  live ;  and  bitterly 
The  voices  of  these  robbers  of  the  heath 
Sound  in  each  ear  and  chill  the  passer-by. 
—  What    have   we   done    to   thee,    thou    monstrous 

Time? 
What  have  we  done  to  Death  that  we  must  die? 


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FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF   ANVERS 

MY  heart  has  its  secret,  my  soul  its  mystery 
A  love  which  is  eternal  begotten  in  a  day. 
The  ill  is  long  past  healing.      Why  should  I  speak 

to-day } 
For  none  have  ears  to  hear,  and,  least  of  all,  she. 
Alas  I  shall  have  lived  unseen  tho'  ever  near, 
For  ever  at  her  side,  for  ever  too  alone. 
I  shall  have  lived  my  life  unknowing  and  unknown, 
Asking  naught,  daring  naught,  receiving  naught  from 

her. 
And  she,  whom  heaven   made  kind  and  chaste  and 

fair, 
Shall  go  undoubting  on,  the  while  upon  her  way 
The  murmur  of  my  love  shall  fill  the  land. 
Till,  reading  here  perchance  severe  and  unaware 
These  lines  so  full  of  her,  she  shall  look  up  and  say 
"  Who  was  this  woman  then  .?  "  and  shall  not  under- 
stand. 

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The  Love  Sonnets 

TO   ONE  TO   WHOM    HE   HAD   BEEN 
UNJUST 

IF  I  was  angry  once  that  you  refused 
The  bread  I  asked  and  offered  me  a  stone, 
Deeming  the  rights  of  bounty  thus  abused 
And  my  poor  beggary  but  trampled  on, 
Believe  me  now  I  would  that  wrong  atone 
With  such  submission  as  a  heart  can  show. 
Asking  no  bread  of  life  but  that  alone 
Your  dear  heart  proffered  and  my  pride  let  go. 
Give  me  your  help,  your  pity,  what  you  will. 
Your  pardon  for  a  sin,  your  act  of  grace 
For  a  rebellion  vanquished  and  undone, 
The  stone  I  once  refused,  that  precious  stone 
Your  friendship,  so  my  thoughts  may  serve  you  still 
Even  if  I  never  more  behold  your  face. 


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THE    MOCKERY   OF   LIFE 

A    TRIPLE    SONNET 


GOD,  what  a  mockery  is  this  life  of  ours !  [womb, 
Cast  forth  in  blood  and  pain  from  our  mother's 
Most  like  an  excrement,  and  weeping  showers 
Of  senseless  tears :  unreasoning,  naked,  dumb. 
The  symbol  of  all  weakness  and  the  sum  : 
Our  very  life  a  sufferance.  —  Presently, 
Grown  stronger,  we  must  fight  for  standing-room 
Upon  the  earth,  and  the  bare  liberty 
To  breathe  and  move.     We  crave  the  right  to  toil. 
We  push,  we  strive,  we  jostle  with  the  rest. 
We  learn  new  courage,  stifle  our  old  fears. 
Stand  with  stiff  backs,  take  part  in  every  broil. 
It  may  be  that  we  love,  that  we  are  blest. 
It  may  be,  for  a  little  space  of  years, 
We  conquer  fate  and  half  forget  our  tears. 

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The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

{Continued) 

II 

AND  then  fate  strikes  us.     First  our  joys  decay. 
Youth,  with  its  pleasures,  is  a  tale  soon  told. 
We  grow  a  little  poorer  day  by  day. 
Old  friendships  falter.     Loves  grow  strangely  cold. 
In  vain  we  shift  our  hearts  to  a  new  hold 
And  barter  joy  for  joy,  the  less  for  less. 
We  doubt  our  strength,  our  wisdom,  and  our  gold. 
We  stand  alone,  as  in  a  wilderness 
Of  doubts  and  terrors.     Then,  if  we  be  wise, 
We  make  our  terms  with  fate  and,  while  we  may, 
Sell  our  life's  last  sad  remnant  for  a  hope. 
And  it  is  wisdom  thus  to  close  our  eyes. 
But  for  the  foolish,  those  who  cannot  pray. 
What  else  remains  of  their  dark  horoscope 
But  a  tall  tree  and  courage  and  a  rope? 

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THE   SAME 

{Continued) 
III 

AND  who  shall  tell  what  ignominy  death 
Has  yet  in  store  for  us ;  what  abject  fears 
Even  for  the  best  of  us ;  what  fights  for  breath ; 
What  sobs,  what  supplications,  what  wild  tears; 
What  impotence  of  soul  against  despairs 
Which  blot  out  reason?  —  The  last  trembling  thought 
Of  each  poor  brain,  as  dissolution  nears, 
Is  not  of  fair  life  lost,  of  heaven  bought 
And  glory  won.     'Tis  not  the  thought  of  grief; 
Of  friends  deserted  ;  loving  hearts  which  bleed  ; 
Wives,  sisters,  children  who  around  us  weep. 
But  only  a  mad  clutching  for  relief 
From  physical  pain,  importunate  Nature's  need ; 
The  search  as  for  a  womb  where  we  may  creep 
Back  from  the  world,  to  hide,  —  perhaps  to  sleep. 

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The  Love  Sonnets 

WHO  WOULD  LIVE  AGAIN  ? 

OH  who  would  live  again  to  suffer  loss  ? 
Once  in  my  youth  I  battled  with  my  fate, 
Grudging  my  days  to  death.     I  would  have  won 
A  place  by  violence  beneath  the  sun. 
I  took  my  pleasures  madly  as  by  force, 
Even  the  air  of  heaven  was  a  prize. 
I  stood  a  plunderer  at  death's  very  gate, 
And  all  the  lands  of  life  I  did  o'errun 
With  sack  and  pillage.     Then  I  scorned  to  die. 
Save  as  a  conqueror.     The  treasuries 
Of  love  I  ransacked ;   pity,  pride  and  hate. 
All  that  can  make  hearts  beat  or  brim  men's  eyes 
With  living  tears  I  took  as  robes  to  wear. 
—  But  see,  now  time  has  struck  me  on  the  hip. 
I  cannot  hate  nor  love.     My  senses  are 
Struck  silent  with  the  silence  of  my  lip. 
No  courage  kindles  in  my  heart  to  dare, 
No  strength  to  do.     The  world's  last  phantoms  slip 
Out  of  my  grasp,  and  naught  is  left  but  pain. 
Love,  life,  vain  strength.  —  Oh  who  would  live  again  ? 

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COLD   COMFORT 

THERE  is  no  comfort  underneath  the  sun. 
Youth  turns  to  age;   riches  are  quickly  spent; 
Pride  breeds  us  pain,  our  pleasures  punishment, 
The  very  courage  which  we  count  upon 
A  single  night  of  fever  shall  break  down, 
And  love  is  slain  by  fear.     Death  last  of  all 
Spreads  out  his  nets  and  watches  for  our  fall. 
There  is  no  comfort  underneath  the  sun  ! 
—  When  thou  art  old,  O  man,  if  thou  wert  proud 
Be  humble;  pride  will  here  avail  thee  not. 
There  is  no  courage  which  can  conquer  death. 
Forget  that  thou  wert  wise.     Nay,  keep  thy  breath 
For  prayer,  that  so  thy  wisdom  be  forgot 
And  thou  perhaps  get  pity  of  thy  God. 


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The  Love  Sonnets 

AMOUR   OBLIGE 

I  COULD  forgive  you,  dearest,  all  the  folly 
Your  heart  has  dreamed.     Alas,  as  we  grow  old, 
We  need  more  vigorous  cures  for  melancholy, 
A  stronger  nutriment  for  hearts  grown  cold. 
We  need  in  face  of  weakness  to  be  bold. 
We  need  our  folly  to  keep  fate  at  bay. 
Oh,  we  need  madness  in  the  manifold 
Doubts  and  despairs  which  herald  our  decay. 
I  could  forgive  you  all  and  more  than  all, 
Yet,  dearest,  though  for  us  fate  waves  his  hand 
And  we  accept  it  as  the  common  lot 
To  meet  no  more  at  this  life's  festival. 
It  were  unseemly  you  should  take  your  stand. 
Now  my  heart's  citadel  is  laid  in  siege, 
In  open  field  with  those  who  love  me  not. 
Love  has  a  rank  which  surely  should  oblige. 


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TO   ONE  UNFORGOTTEN 

YOU  are  not  false  perhaps,  as  lovers  say 
Meaning  the  act,  —  Alas,  that  guilt  was  mine. 
Nor,  maybe,  have  you  bowed  at  other  shrine 
Than  the  true  god's  where  first  you  learned  to  pray. 
I  know  the  idols  round  you.     They  are  clay, 
Mere  Dagons  to  the  courage  half  divine 
Which  bears  you  scathless  still  thro'  sap  and  mine 
And  breach  and  storm  upon  your  virgin  way. 
Alas,  I  know  your  virtue ;  —  but  your  heart. 
How  have  you  treated  it  .'*     I  sometimes  see. 
When  nights  are  long,  a  vision  chaste  and  true 
Of  pale  pathetic  eyes  which  gaze  on  me 
In  love  and  grief  eternal.     Then  I  start, 
Crying  aloud,  and  reach  my  arms  to  you. 


8i 


The  Love  Sonnets 

TO   ONE  WHOM    HE   HAD    LOVED   TOO 
LONG 

WHY  do  I  cling  to  thee,  sad  love?     Too  long 
Thou  bringest  me  neither  pleasure  to  my  soul 
Nor  profit  to  my  reason  save  in  song, 
My  daily  utterance.     See,  thy  beggar's  dole 
Of  foolish  tears  cannot  my  tears  cajole; 
Thy  laughter  doth  my  laughter  grievous  wrong; 
Thy  anger  angereth  me;  thou  heapest  coal 
Of  fire  upon  my  head  the  drear  night  long 
With  thy  forgiveness.     What  is  this  thou  wilt .? 
Mine  ears  have  ceased  to  hear,  my  tongue  to  speak. 
And  naught  is  left  for  my  spent  heart  to  do. 
Love  long  has  left  the  feast ;   the  cup  is  spilt. 
Let  us  go  too.     The  dawn  begins  to  break. 
And  there  is  mockery  in  this  heaven  of  blue. 


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HE  WOULD   LEAD   A   BETTER   LIFE 

JAM  tired  of  folly,  tired  of  my  own  ways, 
Love  is  a  strife.     I  do  not  want  to  strive. 
If  I  had  foes  I  now  would  make  my  peace. 
If  I  less  wedded  were  I  now  would  wive. 
I  would  do  service  to  my  kind,  contrive 
Something  of  good  for  men,  some  happiness 
For  those  who  in  the  world  still  love  and  live ; 
And,  as  my  fathers  did,  so  end  my  days. 
I  would  earn  praise,  I  too,  of  honest  men. 
I  would  repent  in  sackcloth  if  needs  be. 
I  would  serve  God  and  expiate  my  sin, 
Abjuring  love  and  thee  —  ay,  even  thee. 
I  would  do  this,  dear  love.     But  what  am  I 
To  will  or  do  ?     As  we  have  lived  we  die. 


83 


PART    IV 

VITA   NOVA 


A  DAY  IN   SUSSEX 

THE  dove  did  lend  me  wings.     I  fled  away 
From  the  loud  world  which  long  had  troubled  me. 
Oh  lightly  did  I  flee  when  hoyden  May 
Threw  her  wild  mantle  on  the  hawthorn  tree. 
I  left  the  dusty  high  road,  and  my  way 
Was  through  deep  meadows,  shut  with  copses  fair 
A  choir  of  thrushes  poured  its  roundelay 
From  every  hedge  and  every  thicket  there. 
Mild,  moon-faced  kine  looked  on,  where  in  the  grass 
All  heaped  with  flowers  I  lay,  from  noon  till  eve. 
And  hares  unwitting  close  to  me  did  pass, 
And  still  the  birds  sang,  and  I  could  not  grieve. 
Oh  what  a  blessed  thing  that  evening  was  ! 
Peace,  music,  twilight,  all  that  could  deceive 
A  soul  to  joy  or  lull  a  heart  to  peace. 
It  glimmers  yet  across  whole  years  like  these. 


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IN  ANNIVERSARIO   MORTIS 


IF  I  can  bring  no  tribute  of  fresh  tears 
To  mingle  with  the  dust  which  covers  thee  ; 
If  in  this  latest  dawn  of  evil  years 
My  rebel  eyes  withhold  their  sympathy  ; 
If  of  a  truth  my  thoughts  so  barren  be 
Of  their  old  griefs,  so  numb  to  tenderness 
That  they  nor  hear  nor  taste  nor  feel  nor  see 
The  sweetness  of  thy  presence  in  this  place ; 
If  I  now  drowse,  —  't  is  that  the  flesh  is  weak 
More  than  the  spirit.     See,  by  thy  dear  bed 
Once  more  I  kneel  in  sorrow  and  in  love. 
See,  I  still  watch  by  thee  if  thou  shouldst  move. 
If  thou  shouldst  raise  thy  hand  or  turn  thy  head, 
Or  speak  my  name,  — and  yet  thou  dost  not  speak. 


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THE    SAME 

{Continued) 

II 

THESE  flowers  shall  be  my  offering,  living  flowers 
Which  here  shall  die  with  me  in  sacrifice, 
Flowers  from  the  empty  fields  which  once  were  yours 
And  now  are  mine.     No  gold,  nor  myrrh,  nor  spice, 
Nor  any  dead  man's  offering  may  suffice. 
I  love  not  flowers ;  but  thus  to  deck  a  grave 
Which  has  no  need  of  things  of  greater  price. 
Life  is  the  only  tribute  death  would  have. 
—  Ah,  thou  art  dead.     Mine  is  this  fair  domain 
With  all  its  living  beauty  and  brave  shows 
Of  lawn,  and  lake,  and  garden ;  mine  the  increase 
Of  the  year's  harvest,  the  slow  growth  of  trees, 
And  that  fair  natural  wealth  we  loved  in  vain. 
Flowers,  which  shall  never  more  adorn  my  house. 


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The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 

(  Contijiued) 
III 

IT  is  not  true  the  dead  unhonoured  were 
If  they  returned  to  life.     Nay,  claim  thine  own, 
And  see  how  gladly  I,  thy  *'  thankless  heir," 
Will  yield  thee  back  possession  of  thy  throne. 
I  am  not  so  in  love  with  riches  grown 
That  such  can  comfort  me.     Alas,  too  long 
The  fields  are  furrowed  and  the  wheat  is  sown 
For  my  sole  grief  that  these  should  do  thee  wrong. 
I  hold  these  things  not  wholly  as  in  fee, 
But  thinking  that  perhaps  some  happy  day 
We  yet  may  walk  together,  and  devise 
Of  the  old  lands  we  loved,  in  Paradise, 
And  I  shall  give  account,  as  best  I  may, 
How  I  thy  tenant  was  awhile  for  thee. 


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THE   SAME 

{Conimued) 

IV 

THY  ways  were  not  my  ways.    Thy  life  was  peace, 
And  mine  has  been  a  battle.     Thou  didst  store 
Thy  soul's  wealth  sternly  to  a  sure  increase, 
And  thy  revenue's  much  still  swelled  to  more. 
Thou  squanderedst  nothing  on  the  pomp  of  war, 
The  lust  of  glory.     No  mad  covetous  eyes 
Were  thine  upon  thy  neighbour's  lands  afar, 
His  wealth,  his  wife,  his  fenceless  vanities. 
Thou  wert  a  brave,  just  man,  whom  all  men  knew 
And  trusted,  and  some  loved,  and  thou  to  me 
Wert  as  a  tower  of  strength,  a  sanctuary 
To  which  I  fled  from  the  world's  maddened  crew. 
Wounded  by  me,  and  there  with  bloodstained  hands 
Clung  to  the  altar  of  thy  innocence. 


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THE   LIMIT 

OF    HUMAN    KNOWLEDGE 

THERE  is  a  vice  in  the  world's  reasoning.     Man 
Has  conquered  knowledge.     He  has  conquered 
He  has  traced  out  the  universal  plan  [power  : 

Of  the  earth's  being ;  and  in  this  last  hour 
He  has  unmade  the  God  which  he  had  made. 
I  cannot  doubt  but  he  at  length  has  read 
The  riddle  of  the  Earth ;  that  he  is  wise. 
He  also  hath  dominion  chartered 
Over  the  lands,  the  oceans,  and  the  skies, 
Which  toil  and  sweat  to  give  him  daily  bread. 
—  Knowledge  he  hath,  and  power  upon  the  earth, 
And  long  ago  he  had  himself  been  God, 
But  for  the  cruel  secret  of  his  birth, 
Which  gave  him  kindred  with  the  dust  he  trod, 
And  for  the  hideous  ending  of  his  mirth, 
A  fly-blown  carrion  festering  'neath  the  sod. 

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of  Proteus 

THE   PRIDE   OF   UNBELIEF 

WHEN  I  complained  that  I  had  lost  my  hope 
Of  life  eternal  with  the  eternal  God; 
When  I  refused  to  read  my  horoscope 
In  the  unchanging  stars,  or  claim  abode 
With  powers  and  dominations  —  but,  poor  clod, 
Clung  to  the  earth  and  grovelled  in  my  tears. 
Because  I  soon  must  lie  beneath  the  sod 
And  close  the  little  number  of  my  years,  — 
Then  I  was  told  that  pride  had  barred  the  way. 
And  raised  this  foul  rebellion  in  my  head. 
Yet,  strange  rebellion  !     I,  but  yesterday, 
Was  God's  own  son  in  His  own  likeness  bred. 
And  thrice  strange  pride !  who  thus  am  cast  away 
And  go  forth  lost  and  disinherited. 


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LAUGHTER    AND    DEATH 

THERE  is  no  laughter  in  the  natural  world 
Of  beast  or  fish  or  bird,  though  no  sad  doubt 
Of  their  futurity  to  them  unfurled 
Has  dared  to  check  the  mirth-compelling  shout. 
The  lion  roars  his  solemn  thunder  out 
To  the  sleeping  woods.     The  eagle  screams  her  cry. 
Even  the  lark  must  strain  a  serious  throat 
To  hurl  his  blest  defiance  at  the  sky. 
Fear,  anger,  jealousy  have  found  a  voice. 
Love's  pain  or  rapture  the  brute  bosoms  swell. 
Nature  has  symbols  for  her  nobler  joys, 
Her  nobler  sorrows.     Who  had  dared  foretell 
That  only  man,  by  some  sad  mockery. 
Should  learn  to  laugh  who  learns  that  he  must  die? 


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WRITTEN   IN   DISTRESS 

WE  sometimes  sit  in  darkness.     I  long  while 
Have  sat  there,  in  a  shadow  as  of  death. 
My  friends  and  comforters  no  longer  smile, 
And  they  who  grudge  me  wrongfully  my  breath 
Are  strong  and  many.     I  am  bowed  beneath 
A  weight  of  trouble  and  unjust  reproach 
From  many  fools  and  friends  of  little  faith. 
The  world  is  little  worth,  yet  troubles  much. 
But  I  am  comforted  in  this,  that  I, 
Although  my  face  is  darkened  to  men's  eyes 
And  all  my  life  eclipsed  with  angry  wars, 
Now  see  things  hidden;  and  I  seem  to  spy 
New  worlds  above  my  heaven.     Night  is  wise 
And  joy  a  sun  which  never  guessed  the  stars. 


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A   DISAPPOINTMENT 

SPRING,  of  a  sudden,  came  to  life  one  day. 
Ere  this,  the  winter  had  been  cold  and  chill. 
That  morning  first  the  summer  air  did  fill 
The  world,  making  bleak  March  seem  almost  May. 
The  daffodils  were  blooming  golden  gay ; 
The  birch  trees  budded  purple  on  the  hill ; 
The  rose,  that  clambered  up  the  window-sill, 
Put  forth  a  crimson  shoot.     All  yesterday 
The  winds  about  the  casement  chilly  blew. 
But  now  the  breeze  that  played  about  the  door, 
So  caught  the  dead  leaves  that  I  thought  there  flew 
Brown  butterflies  up  from  the  grassy  floor. 
—  But  someone  said  you  came  not.     Ah,  too  true  ! 
And  I,  I  thought  that  winter  reigned  once  more. 


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A  YEAR  AGO 

A  YEAR  ago  I  too  was  proud  of  May, 
I  too  delighted  in  the  blackbird's  song. 
When  the  sun  shone  my  soul  made  holiday. 
When  the  rain  fell  I  felt  it  as  a  wrong  — 
Then  for  me  too  the  world  was  fresh  and  young 
Oh  what  a  miracle  each  bluebell  was ! 
How  my  heart  leaped  in  union  with  my  tongue, 
When  first  I  lit  upon  a  stag's  horn  moss ! 
A  year  ago  —  Alas,  one  summer's  fire, 
One  autumn's  chill,  one  winter's  discontent, 
And  now  one  spring  of  joy  and  hope  deferred 
Have  brought  me  to  this  pass  of  undesire 
That  I  behold  May's  veil  of  beauty  rent 
And  stand  unmoved  by  sun  and  flower  and  bird. 


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HE   IS   NOT  A   POET 

I  WOULD  not,  if  I  could,  be  called  a  poet. 
I  have  no  natural  love  of  the  "  chaste  muse." 
If  aught  be  worth  the  doing  I  would  do  it; 
And  others,  if  they  will,  may  tell  the  news. 
I  care  not  for  their  laurels  but  would  choose 
On  the  world's  field  to  fight  or  fall  or  run. 
My  soul's  ambition  will  not  take  excuse 
To  play  the  dial  rather  than  the  sun. 
The  faith  I  held  I  hold,  as  when  a  boy 
I  left  my  books  for  cricket  bat  and  gun. 
The  tales  of  poets  are  but  scholars*  themes. 
In  my  hot  youth  I  held  it  that  a  man 
With  heart  to  dare  and  stomach  to  enjoy 
Had  better  work  to  his  hand  in  any  plan 
Of  any  folly,  so  the  thing  were  done, 
Than  in  the  noblest  dreaming  of  mere  dreams. 


98 


of  Proteus 


ON  THE  SHORTNESS   OF  TIME 

IF  I  could  live  without  the  thought  of  death, 
Forgetful  of  Time's  waste,  thy  soul's  decay, 
I  would  not  ask  for  other  joy  than  breath 
With  light  and  sound  of  birds  and  the  sun's  ray. 
I  could  sit  on  untroubled  day  by  day 
Watching  the  grass  grow,  and  the  wild  flowers  range 
From  blue  to  yellow  and  from  red  to  grey 
In  natural  sequence  as  the  seasons  change. 
I  could  afford  to  wait,  but  for  the  hurt 
Of  this  dull  tick  of  time  which  chides  my  ear. 
But  now  I  dare  not  sit  with  loins  ungirt 
And  staff  unlifted,  for  death  stands  too  near. 
I  must  be  up  and  doing,  —  ay,  each  minute. 
The  grave  gives  time  for  rest  when  we  are  in  it. 


99 


The  Love  Sonnets 


CHANCLEBURY   RING 

SAY  what  you  will,  there  is  not  in  the  world 
A  nobler  sight  than  from  this  upper  down. 
No  rugged  landscape  here,  no  beauty  hurled 
From  its  Creator's  hand  as  with  a  frown ; 
But  a  green  plain  on  which  green  hills  look  down 
Trim  as  a  garden  plot.     No  other  hue 
Can  hence  be  seen,  save  here  and  there  the  brown 
Of  a  square  fallow,  and  the  horizon's  blue. 
Dear  checker-work  of  woods,  the  Sussex  weald. 
If  a  name  thrills  me  yet  of  things  of  earth, 
That  name  is  thine.     How  often  I  have  fled 
To  thy  deep  hedgerows  and  embraced  each  field, 
Each  lag,  each  pasture,  —  fields  which  gave  me  birth 
And  saw  my  youth,  and  which  must  hold  me  dead. 


lOO 


of  Proteus 


SONNET    IN    ASSONANCE 

A  THOUSAND  bluebells  blossom  in  the  wood, 
Shut  in  a  tangled  brake  of  briar  roses, 
And  guarded  well  from  every  wanton  foot, 
A  treasure  by  no  eye  of  man  beholden, — 
No  eye  but  mine.     No  other  tongue  hath  spoken 
Out  to  the  joyless  world  what  hidden  joys 
Lie  there  untasted,  mines  of  wealth  unnoted, 
While  a  starved  world  without  lives  blank  and  void. 
—  Ah,  couldst  thou  know,  poor  wretch,  what  I  have 
See  what  I  saw  upon  that  bank  enshrined,       [known. 
Soft  pity  had  not  wholly  left  thy  soul 
And  tears  had  dimnied  thy  hard  eyes  uninvited. 
Eyes  that  are  cruel-bright  with  hunger's  bright- 
Hunger  for  beauty,  solitude,  and  peace.  [ness,  — 
There  hadst  thou  found  a  beauty  and  a  silence. 
Such  as  nor  tongue  can  tell  nor  fancy  dream. 


The  Love  Sonnets 


YOUTH 

YOUTH,  ageless  youth,  the  old  gods*  attribute ! 
—  To  inherit  cheeks  a-tingle  with  such  blood 
As  wood  nymphs  blushed,  who  to  the  first-blown  flute 
Went  out  in  endless  dancing  through  the  wood. 
To  live,  and  taste  of  that  immortal  food 
After  the  wild  day*s  waste  prepared  for  us 
By  deathless  hands,  and  straightway  be  renewed, 
Like  the  god's  entrails  upon  Caucasus. 
To  rise  at  dawn  with  eye  and  brain  and  sense 
Clear  as  the  pale  green  edge  where  dawn  began, 
While  each  bold  thought  full  shapen  should  arise, 
Cutting  the  horizon  of  experience. 
Sharp  as  an  obelisk.  —  Ah,  wretched  man, 
'T  is  little  wonder  that  the  gods  are  wise. 


I02 


of  Proteus 


AGE 


OAGE,  thou  art  the  very  thief  of  joy, 
For  thou  hast  rifled  many  a  proud  fool 
Of  all  his  passions,  hoarded  by  a  rule 
Of  stern  economy.     Him,  yet  a  boy. 
Harsh  wisdom  governed.     Others  turned  to  toy 
With  lusty  passion.     He  was  chaste  and  cool 
As  a  young  Dorian  in  Lycurgus'  school. 
Ah  me,  that  thou  such  souls  shouldst  dare  annoy. 
Thus  did  he  gather  him  a  store  of  pleasure, 
Nor  cared  to  touch  what  he  so  hardly  won, 
But  led  long  years  of  solitary  strife; 
And,  when  the  rest  should  have  consumed  their 
He  thought  to  sit  him  in  the  evening  sun     [treasure, 
And  taste  the  sweet  fruits  of  a  sober  life. 


103 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE   SAME 
{Contmiied) 
II 

BUT  thou  didst  come  upon  him  ere  he  wist, 
A  silent  highwayman,  and  take  his  all 
And  leave  him  naked,  when  the  night  should  fall 
And  all  the  road  was  conjured  in  a  mist. 
Too  well  thou  keepedst  thy  unholy  tryst, 
As  long  ago  that  eastern  seneschal 
Rode  all  day  long  to  meet  at  evenfall 
Him  he  had  fled  ere  yet  the  sun  uprist 
—  But  I  have  spent  me  like  a  prodigal 
The  treasure  of  my  youth,  and,  long  ago, 
Have  eaten  husks  among  the  hungry  swine. 
And  when  I  meet  thee  I  will  straightway  fall 
Upon  thy  neck,  and  if  the  tears  shall  flow, 
They  shall  be  tears  of  love  for  thee  and  thine. 


104 


of  Proteus 


THE    VENUS    OF    MILO 

WHAT  art  thou  ?  Woman  ?  Goddess  ?  Aphrodite  ? 
Yet  never  such  as  thou  from  the  cold  foam 
Of  ocean,  nor  from  cloudy  heaven  might  come, 
Who  wast  begotten  on  her  bridal  night 
In  passionate  Earth's  womb  by  Man's  delight, 
When  Man  was  young.     I  cannot  trace  in  thee 
Time's  handiwork.     Say,  rather,  where  is  he 
For  whom  thy  face  was  red  which  is  so  white  ? 
Thou  standest  ravished,  broken,  and  thy  face 
Is  writ  with  ancient  passions.     Thou  art  dumb 
To  my  new  love.     Yet,  whatsoe'er  of  good, 
Of  crime,  of  pride,  of  passion,  or  of  grace 
In  woman  is,  thou,  woman,  hast  in  sum. 
Earth's  archetypal  Eve.     All  Womanhood. 


105 


The  Love  Sonnets 


WRITTEN   AT   FLORENCE 


O  WORLD,  in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young, 
When  wilt  thou  learn  to  wear  the  garb  of  age  ? 
World,  with  thy  covering  of  yellow  flowers, 
Hast  thou  forgot  what  generations  sprung 
Out  of  thy  loins  and  loved  thee  and  are  gone? 
Hast  thou  no  place  in  all  their  heritage 
Where  thou  dost  only  weep  that  I  may  come 
Nor  fear  the  mockery  of  thy  yellow  flowers? 
O  world,  in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young. 
The  heroic  wealth  of  passionate  emprize 
Built  thee  fair  cities  for  thy  naked  plains. 
How  hast  thou  set  thy  summer  growth  among 
The  broken  stones  which  were  their  palaces? 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  darkness  where  he  lies 
Who  made  thee  beautiful,  or  have  thy  bees 
Found  out  his  grave  to  build  their  honeycombs? 

1 06 


of  Proteus 

THE   SAME 

(Contimied) 
II 

O  WORLD,  in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young, 
They  gave  thee  love  who  measured  out  thy  skies, 
And,  when  they  found  for  thee  another  star, 
Who  made  a  festival  and  straightway  hung 
The  jewel  on  thy  neck.     O  merry  world. 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  glory  of  those  eyes 
Which  first  looked  love  in  thine  ?   Thou  hast  not  furled 
One  banner  of  thy  bridal  car  for  them. 
O  world,  in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young. 
There  was  a  voice  which  sang  about  thy  spring, 
Till  winter  froze  the  sweetness  of  his  lips. 
And  lo,  the  worms  had  hardly  left  his  tongue 
Before  thy  nightingales  were  come  again. 
O  world,  what  courage  hast  thou  thus  to  sing  ? 
Say,  has  thy  merriment  no  secret  pain 
No  sudden  weariness  that  thou  art  young  ? 

107 


The  Love  Sonnets 


PALAZZO   PAGANI 

THIS  is  the  house  where,  twenty  years  ago, 
They  spent  a  spring  and  summer.    This  shut  gate 
Would  lead  you  to  the  terrace,  and  below 
To  a  rose  garden  long  since  desolate. 
Here  they  once  lived.     How  often  I  have  sat 
Till  it  was  dusk  among  the  olive  trees, 
Waiting  to  hear  their  coming  horse-hoofs  grate 
Upon  the  gravel ;  till  the  freshening  breeze 
Bore  down  a  sound  of  voices.     Even  yet 
A  broken  echo  of  their  laughter  rings 
Through  the  deserted  terraces ;  —  and  see, 
While  I  am  speaking,  from  the  parapet 
There  is  a  hand  put  forth,  and  some  one  flings 
Her  very  window  open  overhead. 

—  How  sweet  it  is,  this  scent  of  rosemary ! 

—  These  are  the  last  tears  I  shall  ever  shed. 


1 08 


of  Proteus 


THE   SUBLIME 


TO  stand  upon  a  windy  pinnacle, 
Beneath  the  infinite  blue  of  the  blue  noon, 
And  underfoot  a  valley  terrible 
As  that  dim  gulf,  where  sense  and  being  swoon 
When  the  soul  parts ;  a  giant  valley  strewn 
With  giant  rocks;   asleep,  and  vast,  and  still. 
And  far  away.     The  torrent,  which  has  hewn 
His  pathway  through  the  entrails  of  the  hill. 
Now  crawls  along  the  bottom  and  anon 
Lifts  up  his  voice,  a  muffled  tremulous  roar. 
Borne  on  the  wind  an  instant,  and  then  gone 
Back  to  the  caverns  of  the  middle  air; 
A  voice  as  of  a  nation  overthrown 
With  beat  of  drums,  when  hosts  have  marched  to  war 


109 


The  Love  Sonnets 

THE  SAME 

{Continued) 

II 

CLUTCHING  the  brink  with  hands  and  feet  and 
knees, 
With  trembling  heart,  and  eyes  grown  strangely  dim. 
A  part  thyself  and  parcel  of  the  frieze 
Of  that  colossal  temple  raised  to  Time, 
To  gaze  on  horror,  till,  as  in  a  crime, 
Thou  and  the  rocks  become  accomplices. 
There  is  no  voice,-  no  life  'twixt  thee  and  them. 
No  life  !     Yet,  look,  far  down  upon  the  breeze 
Something  has  passed  across  the  bosom  bare 
Of  the  red  rocks,  a  leaf,  a  shape,  a  shade. 
A  living  shadow  !  ay,  above  thee  there, 
Weaving  majestic  circles  overhead, 
Others  are  watching.  —  This  is  the  sublime: 

To  be  alone,  with  eagles  in  the  air. 

no 


of  Proteus 


A   FOREST  IN   BOSNIA 

SPIRIT  of  Trajan  !     What  a  world  is  here. 
What  remnant  of  old  Europe  in  this  wood 
Of  life  primaeval  rude  as  in  the  year 
When  thy  first  legions  by  the  Danube  stood. 
These  are  the  very  Dacians  they  subdued, 
Swineherds  and  shepherds  clad  in  skins  of  deer 
And  fox  and  marten  still,  a  bestial  brood, 
Than  their  own  swine  begotten  swinelier. 
The  fair  oak-forest,  their  first  heritage. 
Pastures  them  still,  and  still  the  hollow  oak 
Receives  them  in  its  bosom.     Still  o'erhead 
Upon  the  stag-head  tops,  grown  hoar  with  age, 
Calm  buzzards  sit  and  ancient  ravens  croak, 
And  all  with  solemn  life  is  tenanted. 


Ill 


The  Love  Sonnets 
ROUMELI    HISSAR 

A   SONNET 

THE  empire  of  the  East,  grown  dull  to  fear 
By  long  companionship  with  angry  fate 
In  silent  anguish  saw  her  doom  appear 
In  this  dark  fortress  built  upon  the  strait, 
And  Sultan  Mahmoud  standing  at  her  gate, 
For  she  must  perish.     Hissar  many  a  year 
Struck  terror  into  all  who  gazed  thereat. 
Till  in  his  turn  the  Turk  had  learned  to  wear 
The  purple  and  fine  linen  of  the  State, 
And  fell  in  impotence.     These  walls  to-day, 
With  Judas  tree  and  lilac  overgrown. 
Move  all  men's  hearts.     For  close  on  barbarous  power 
Tread  lust  and  indolence,  and  then  decay 
Till  we  forgive.  —  The  very  German  boor. 
Who  in  his  day  of  fortune  moves  our  scorn 
Purged  of  his  slough,  in  after  ages  may 
Invite  the  tears  of  nations  yet  unborn. 

112 


of  Proteus 


THE    OASIS    OF    SIDI    KHALED 

HOW  the  earth  burns  !     Each  pebble  underfoot 
Is  as  a  living  thing  with  power  to  wound. 
The  white  sand  quivers,  and  the  footfall  mute 
Of  the  slow  camels  strikes  but  gives  no  sound, 
As  though  they  walked  on  flame,  not  solid  ground. 
'T  is  noon,  and  the  beasts'  shadows  even  have  fled 
Back  to  their  feet,  and  there  is  fire  around 
And  fire  beneath,  and  overhead  the  sun. 
Pitiful  heaven  !     What  is  this  we  view? 
Tall  trees,  a  river,  pools,  where  swallows  fly, 
Thickets  of  oleander  where  doves  coo. 
Shades,  deep  as  midnight,  greenness  for  tired  eyes. 
ITark,  how  the  light  winds  in  the  palm-tops  sigh. 
Oh  this  is  rest.     Oh  this  is  paradise. 


113 


The  Love  Sonnets 


TO    THE   BEDOUIN  ARABS 

CHILDREN  of  Shem  !     Firstborn  of  Noah's  race, 
But  still  forever  children ;  at  the  door 
Of  Eden  found,  unconscious  of  disgrace. 
And  loitering  on  while  all  are  gone  before; 
Too  proud  to  dig;  too  careless  to  be  poor; 
Taking  the  gifts  of  God  in  thanklessness. 
Not  rendering  aught,  nor  supplicating  more. 
Nor  arguing  with  Him  when  He  hides  His  face. 
Yours  is  the  rain  and  sunshine,  and  the  way 
Of  an  old  wisdom  by  our  world  forgot. 
The  courage  of  a  day  which  knew  not  death. 
Well  may  we  sons  of  Japhet  in  dismay 
Pause  in  our  vain  mad  fight  for  life  and  breath, 
Beholding  you.     I  bow  and  reason  not. 


ir4 


of  Proteus 


GIBRALTAR 

SEVEN  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of  storm 
Upon  the  huge  Atlantic,  and  once  more 
We  ride  into  still  water  and  the  calm 
Of  a  sweet  evening  screened  by  either  shore 
Of  Spain  and  Barbary.     Our  toils  are  o'er, 
Our  exile  is  accomplished.     Once  again 
We  look  on  Europe,  mistress  as  of  yore 
Of  the  fair  earth  and  of  the  hearts  of  men. 
Ay,  this  is  the  famed  rock,  which  Hercules 
And  Goth  and  Moor  bequeathed  us.     At  this  door 
England  stands  sentry.     God  !  to  hear  the  shrill 
Sweet  treble  of  her  fifes  upon  the  breeze 
And  at  the  summons  of  the  rock  gun's  roar 
To  see  her  red  coats  marching  from  the  hill. 


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Just  the  funniest,  most  fascinating  book  for  little  folks.  —  Columbia  Herald. 

This  is  what  we  want  —  more  books  of  humor  for  the  wee  ones.  —  Denver  Boot-Leaf. 


AT    THE    SIGN    OF    THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY'S     PUBLICATIONS 
LARK   CLASSICS 

Selected  from  Ancient  and  Modern  Literature.  Issued  from 
time  to  time  in  convenient  pocket  form,  toe II  printed  from 
clear  type,  and  artistically  bounds  with  cover  designed  by 
Porter  Garnett,  Paper,  2^c.;  cloth  limp,  ^oc,;  full 
leather  limp,  gilt  top,   y^c. 


I.    RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM.    Translated  into 

English  Verse  by  Edward  Fitzgerald;  comprising  the  first  and  fourth 
editions,  with  notes;  and  additional  poems  by  Justin  Huntley  McCar- 
thy, Porter  Garnett,  and  others. 

*'A  pleasing  reminiscence  of  The  Lark  'of  blessed  memory'  comes  in  the  small, 
compact,  flexible-covered  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam.  This  bundle  of  sweet-scented 
Oriental  leaves  in  such  easily  portable  form  will  be  welcomed  by  the  impressively  large 
'  Omar-cult'  throughout  the  United  States." — Boston  Globe. 

'•*■  William  Doxey,  of  San  Francisco,  who  made  his  name  honorably  familiar  to 
readers  as  the  publisher  of  The  Lari,  and  has  set  a  high  standard  for  the  producers  of 
books  on  jhe  Pacific  Coast,  has  started  a  choice  series  of  little  books,  to  be  called  the 
'Lark  Classics,'  that  will  become  favorites." — Philadelphia  Times, 

"  One  of  the  series  of  '  Lark  Classics'  which  Doxey  is  presenting  to  the  public  is 
admirably  printed,  and  altogether  attractively  gotten  up.  ' — Sacramento  Bte. 

"  We  are  to  be  congratulated  that  we  can  buy  our  '  Omar'  in  the  United  States  at 
almost  any  price,  and  in  very  pretty  editions.  One  of  the  prettiest  that  I  know  of  is  the 
cheapest." — Critic. 

"A  tasteful  edition.  The  volume  is  of  convenient  pocket  size,  the  typography  is 
clear  and  exact,  the  binding  attractive,  and  the  price  low.  ' — The  Dial. 

AT    THE    SIGN    OF    THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY'S      PUBLICATIONS 

LARK     CLASSICS 

II.     KIPLING  :     Barrack-Room     Ballads,    Recessional, 
AND  Other  Poems.      150  pages.      Now  ready. 
This  is  the  first  collection  of  poems  to  contain  the  <*  Recessional." 

III.  KIPLING  :    Departmental   Ditties,    The   Vampire, 
AND  Other  Poems.      155  pages. 

No  other  collection  of  Poems  contains  **  The  Vampire." 

IV.  JEFFERIES,  RICHARD.     The  Story  of  My  Heart. 

Richard  JeflFeries  survives  in  the  Bookseller's  Catalogue  as  the  author  of  ''  The 
Gamekeeper  at  Home,"  that  he  may  be  known  to  future  ages  as  the  author 
of  *'The  Story  of  My  Heart." 

In  the  history  of  literature,  one  happens,  from  time  to  time,  upon  a  book  which 
has  been  written  because  the  author  had  no  choice  but  to  write  it.  He  was 
compelled  by  hidden  forces  to  write  it.  There  was  no  rest  for  him  day  or  night 
so  soon  as  the  book  was  complete  in  his  mind  until  he  sat  down  to  write  it,  and 
then  he  wrote  it  at  a  white  heat.  For  eighteen  years  Jefferies  says  he  pondered 
over  this  book  —  he  means  that  he  brooded  over  these  and  cognate  subjects 
from  the  time  of  adolescence.  At  last  his  mind  was  full,  and  then  —  but  not 
till  then — he  wrote  it.  —  Walter  Besant. 

V.     SWINBURNE.    Laus  Veneris,  and  Other  Poems,  being 
a  selection    from    the  author's    best    Lyrical  poems,  with 
introduction  by  Howard  V.  Sutherland. 
VI.     SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS.     A  most  dainty  edition 

with  special  Initial  letters  by  Porter  Garnett. 
VIL     MACKAY,  ERIC.      Love  Letters  of  a  Violinist. 
VIII.     BLUNT,  WILFRID  SCAWEN.     The  Love  Sonnets 

OF  Proteus.      Printed  from  the  seventh  English  Edition. 
No  life  is  perfect  that  has  not  been  lived  —  Youth  in  feeling  —  Manhood  in 
battle  —  Old  age  in  meditation.      Again,  no  life  is  perfect  that  is  not  sincere. 
Preface  to   Fourth  Edition. 

AT    THE    SIGN    OF    THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY'S      PUBLICATIONS 

"  A  book  in  which  Californians  should  take  a  pride." —  Sacramtnto  Bee. 


ILD  FLOWERS  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Their  Names,  Haunts,  and  Habits 

By  MARY  ELIZABETH  PARSONS 
Illustrated  by  Margaret  Warriner  Buck 

Gives  botanical  names,  popular  names,  a  technical  description 
and  a  popular  description  of  the  California  Wild  Flowers,  con- 
veniently arranged  and  carefully  indexed, 
■  One  hundred  and  fifty  beautiful  full-page  illustrations;  460 
pages,  crown  8vo.  Bound  in  buckram,  with  suitable  cover 
design,  J2.00  net — ?2.20  postpaid;  bound  in  white  and  gold, 
with  six  plates  exquisitely  colored  by  hand,  $3.00;  full  leather,  $4.cx3;  or  full  leather 
handsomely  decorated  cover,  $5.00. 

In  preparation,  a  Special  Edition,  printed  on  hand-made  paper,  with  all  the 
Illustrations  colored  by  the  artist.    Price,  $25.00. 

"  This  is  the  first  time  the  story  of  the  profuse  and  beautiful  flora  of  California  has 
ever  been  attempted,  and  the  work  is  well  done." —  Colorado  Springs  Gaxette. 


HE  MISSIONS  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Their  Establishment,   Progress, 
AND  Decay 

By  LAURA  BRIDE  POWERS 
With    numerous  illustrations,  and  striking   cover  design  by 
Florence  Lundborg.    Crown  8vo.    Cloth,  gilt  top.    Postpaid 
$1.25.     Paper  covers,  50c. 
"From  the  Sign  of  the  Lark  comes  a. delightful  book  com- 
bining history  with  romance.     Seldom  does  a  reviewer  come 
across   a  book  so  novel  and  entertaining  upon  so  unexpected 
a  topic.     If  this  volume  is  not  read  with  pleasure  by  thousands  of  Americans,  the  spirit 
of  romance  must  be  dead  among  us." — Boston  Journal. 

"  The  half-tones  make  the  book  charming  and  give  it  additional  value." —  Toledo 
Sunday  Journal. 

"  It  will   be   a  valuable  addition   to   the  library   of  any  one  who  is  interested,  no 
matter  how  slightly,  in  the  antiquities  of  the  American  continent," —  Pittsburg  Leader. 

AT    THE    SIGN    OF    THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY'S     PUBLICATIONS 

A  new  a?id  beautifully   illustrated  edition   of  The    Rubaiyat 

THE 
RUB  A  IT  AT  OF  OMAR    KHATTAM 

THE     ASTRONOMER     POET     OF     PERSIA 

Rendered  into  English  Verse  by  EDWARD     FITZGERALD 

With  designs  by  Florence  Lundborg  ;  containing  41  full-page 
drawings  illustrative  of  the  text,  etc.  ;  with  specially  designed 
decorative  borders  for  the  Notes ;  life  of  Edward  Fitzgerald  and 
life  of  Omar,  making  a  splendid  volume  of  i  25  pages  beautifully 
printed  by  the  Cambridge  University  Press  on  fine  and  deli- 
cately toned  paper,  small  4to,  bound  in  cloth  with  bold  and 
striking  design  on  cover  stamped  in  black  and  gold,  boxed, 
price  fy'OO. 

An  edition  de  luxe  of  the  above,  beautifully  printed  on  Im- 
perial Japan  Paper  and  elegantly  bound  in  silk,  limited  to  21^0 
impressions,  each  copy  numbered,  price,  net,  $10. 00. 

This  most  important  edition  of  The  Rubaiyat  is  the  work  of  an 
American  artist  who  has  devoted  several  years  to  the  study  of  the 
great  Persian  philosopher.  The  ilh?strations  are  all  in  line,  rich  in 
thought  and  masterly  in  execution.  The  drawings  are  Persian  in 
design  yet  they  are  so  universal  in  spirit  that  they  show  long  and 
careful  study  in  order  to  give  an  intelligent  elucidation  of  the  text. 
The  text  is  that  of  the  fourth  edition  of  Edward  Fitzgerald  printed 
in  clear  type  and,  accompanying  each  illustration,  makes  a  very 
harmonious  combination. 

AT    THE    SIGN    OF    THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY^S     PUBLICATIONS 

PETRARCH,  AND    OTHER  ESSAYS.     By  Timothy  H. 
Rearden.      i2mo.      Cloth.      Price,  postpaid,  $1.50. 
Contents  :  Francis  Petrarch  j  Alfred  Tennyson  ;  Ditmarsch  and  Klaus  Groth  ; 
Fritz  Reuter's  Life  and  Works  ;  Ballads  and  Lyrics  j  Etc. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  VALLEY.  By  Yone  Noguchi, 
author  of  "Seen  and  Unseen."  With  introduction  by  Charles 
Warren  Stoddard,  and  Frontispiece  after  painting  by  William 
Keith.      60  pages,  fcap.  8vo.      Postpaid,  75c. 

Noguchi  is  a  word-builder  of  startling  originality  and  power.  .  .  .  There  are 
passages  in  his  poems  as  lofty  and  abrupt  as  the  Valley  he  adores.  —  Charles 
Warren    Stoddard. 

JACINTA  ;    A    CALIFORNIAN   IDYLL,  and  other  Verses. 
By  Howard  V.   Sutherland.      7c  pages,  fcap.  8vo.      75c. 

Verses  which  should  win  for  the  author  hosts  of  new  friends,  especially  among 
the  readers  of  the  West.  — James  H.  Barry,  in  San  Francisco  Star. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  AULUS,  and  other  Poems.     By  Flora 
Macdonald  Shearer,   with  cover  design  and  titlepage  by 
Gelett  Burgess.      Cloth,  $1.25. 

A  praiseworthy  achievement,  and  will  be  read  with  enjoyment  by  ever)-  one  who 
loves  poetry  for  its  more  refined  qualities.  —  Scotsman. 

The  simplicity,  tenderness,  and  strength  of  these  poems  demand  recognitiou 
from  the  most  preoccupied  and  averted  attention.  —  Ambrose  Bierge  in  San 
Francisco  Examiner. 

THE    PURPLE    COW.      A  collection  of  vagaries  from  The 
Lark,  by  Gelett  Burgess,  including  the  impossible  idyll  of 
the  Chewing-Gum  Man.      Price,  postpaid,  50c. 

The  "  Purple  Cow"  and  "The  Chewing-Gum  Man"  will  last  forever. —  The 
Bill-Poster. 

The  Lark  has  for  Its  distinction  that  it  introduced  "The  Purple  Cow"  into 
art.  —  New  York  Critic. 

KT    THE    SIGN    OF    THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY^S      PUBLICATIONS 
IDLE  HOUR  SERIES 

IDLE    HOURS   IN   A    LIBRARY.    By     William    Henry 

Hudson,  Professor  of  English  Literature,  Stanford  University.  Fcap, 
8vo.,  cloth,  gilt  top,  ^1.25.  Contents:  London  Life  in  Shak- 
speare's  Time;  Pepys  and  His  Diary;  Two  Novelists  of  the  English 
Restoration;  A  Glimpse  of  Bohemia. 

"  The  volume  is  one  upon  whose  appearance  we  can  congratulate  both  the  writei 
and  the  publisher." — Boston  Transcript. 

'■'•  The  essays  throughout  betray  a  fine  perception  and  a  wholesome  soul." — Brooklyn 
^imts. 

"  The  volume  is  written  most  attractively  in  a  style  to  charm  the  lovers  of  literature." 
-—Washington  Star. 

*'  Professor  Hudson's  book  has  in  a  marked  degree  the  power  of  interesting  us  in 
the  subjects  he  presents,  and  arousing  in  us  the  desire  to  read  for  ourselves  the  books  of 
whose  charms  he  speaks." — Boston  Times. 

"  The  book  is  a  charming  one  to  have  at  one's  elbow  when  a  happy  chance  gives 
one  an  idle  hour." — Denver  Republican. 

IN   PREPARATION: 
A  Nenu  Volume  in  the  Idle  Hour  Series. 

A   QUIET    CORNER   IN    A    LIBRARY.     By    William 

Henry  Hudson,  Professor  of  English  Literature,  Stanford  University. 
Uniform  with  "Idle  Hours  in  a  Library."  Fcap.,  8vo.,  cloth,  gilt 
top,  ^1.25.  Contents:  King  Colley  (CoUey  Gibber);  The  Plays  of 
Two  Great  Novelists;  From  Congreve  to  Sheridan;  Little  Davy  (David 
Garrick). 

"  Professor  Hudson  has  chosen  literary  subjects  that  are  not  worn  threadbare,  and 
which  yet  lie  near  enough  to  popular  interest  to  attract  attention;  and  in  his  treatment 
of  these  subjects  has  combined  soundness  of  scholarship  with  light  and  humorous 
handling." 

AT    THE    SIGN    OF*  THE    LARK,    New    York 


DOXEY'S     PUBLICATIONS 

LARK  CLASSICS  in   Preparation 

IX.      THE  JOLLY  MUSE.      Being  selections  of  humorous 

fugitive  verse  of  the  day. 
X.     THE    HARVEST    OF    SONG.     Selections  from  the 
serious  fugitive  verse  of  the  day. 

XL  BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT.  Son- 
nets FROM  THE  Portuguese.  With  specially  designed 
initial  letters  by  Porter  Garnett. 
XII.  ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL.  The  House  of 
Life.  With  specially  designed  initial  letters  by 
Porter  Garnett. 

LARK  EDITIONS   in   Preparation 

III.  KIPLING.      Recessional.     With  decorated  borders  and 

illustrations  by  Florence  Lundborg. 

IV.  KIPLING.     The    Vampire.     With    decorated   borders 

and  illustrations  by  Lander  Phelps. 
ALSO 
BIGGS'S  BAR,  and  other  Klondyke  Ballads,  by  Howard 
V.  Sutherland.      I  zmo.      Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 
A   clearer   idea   of  certain   phases  of  Klondyke  life   in  the  old 
days,  the  days  before  the  great  rush  of  gold-seekers  threatened  to 
civilize  the  regions  bordering  on  the  North  Pole,  can  be  gained  by 
the  perusal  of  these  humorous  verses  than  by   reading   any    other 
literature  of  that  famous  mining  camp. 

And  fiumerous  other  Volumes  of  Bellcs-Lettres 


AT    THE    SIGN    OF    ITdlE    LARK,    Nevi^    York 


DOXEY'S      PUBLICATIONS 


MAIL  ORDERS  PROMPTLT  ATTENDED  TO 
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Especial  care  is  expended  on  the  manufacture 
of  the  Doxey  publications  and  in  their  selection; 
the  result  is  one  both  pleasing  to  the  eye  and  to 
the  tastes  of  refined  readers.  'The  Lark  Classics  are 
printed  in  a  handy  shape  and  size  and  will  be 
found  very  convenient  to  take  along  on  a  holi- 
day tramp,  besides  being  an  adornment  and  de- 
cided acquisition  to  any  home  library. 


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(OS  AN<iKLF.S 


